A Day in the Life of Maria Hill
by a-really-angry-sorceress
Summary: Deputy Director Maria Hill single-handedly runs S.H.I.E.L.D. That's a fact, not an opinion, and everyone knows it. As if Fury does much apart from stomp about with dramatic one-liners. She handles more deadly secrets everyday than most people could deal with in a lifetime. But everyone, even ice-cold, ex-assassins have a breaking point. And this has been building for a long time...
1. A Rather Impressive Explosion

**_Hey all! So this is my first reasonable length fic that I've actually finished and that I don't want to throw off the heli-carrier or feed to the Hulk. It's pretty much unBeta-d, so there is practically a guarantee of there being mistakes in here, but whatever. I just love Maria Hill such damn much, and I think her role in actually running S.H.I.E.L.D is very unappreciated. Like, can you see Fury sitting down and dealing with a mountain of mistake ridden, poorly written paperwork without blowing his stack? Didn't think so. But everyone, even the Ice Queen has the right to blow up sometimes, and you know how it is with volcanoes. The longer the build up, the more spectacular the explosion. And Hill has been building up to this for a long time._**

**_This is my first decent attempt at trying to write first person present tense, so please be nice! Be warned, there is also a tense change quite early on so don't get too confused!_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be cannon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!_**

**_Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, mention of a past suicide attempt of Hawkeye, French._**

I am _not_ having a good day. Yesterday wasn't a good day either. The day before that was world-endingly crap. And the day before that was even worse. You don't even want to know about what happened last week, believe me. And last month? Well, that's classified.

I'm a woman that prides myself on being organised. Without me chasing down, filing and completing veritable mountains of paperwork I'm convinced this organisation would fall down within a matter of hours. S.H.I.E.L.D's agents might save the world from villains but I save S.H.I.E.L.D from collapse-by-paperwork on an hourly basis. I like lists, I really do. Long, detailed lists that dive into every relevant facet of information whilst leaving out the waffle. But today, my list of crap occurrences is spiralling rapidly out of control.

First things first, I was woken up this morning at 3am to avert a nuclear crisis, because someone, somewhere had allowed terrorists to get hold of some nuclear missiles and point them at both Russia and America. It had been dangerously close to the Cold War getting hot, with the Russians pointing fingers at America and the Yanks yelling back, but even after I sent out a squad to take out the missiles, I had to talk to both sides for two hours just to get them to put the guns away. Testosterone fuelled morons. And to top that lovely early morning mayhem off, the CIA took all the credit. So yes, my desk may or may not have a new bullet hole in it.

Then, 5:30am rolled around. The canteen had run out of coffee, though god knows why because S.H.I.E.L.D can't function without the stuff, and I didn't even have time to dash out to the nearest Starbucks because Fury called, and told me I now had a meeting with the Council at 5:45am. Great. Just because Fury doesn't have a democratic bone in his body, he can't talk with the Council without blowing up, swearing at them and throwing around a few choice insults, before storming out and 99% of the time doing exactly the opposite of what the Council has just ordered him to do. Surprisingly enough, the Council responds better when I wheedle and persuade and cajole them around into our point of view, which is why I always get landed with the Council meetings. Better than the Director I may be, but not even I can persuade them that Agent Clint Barton, otherwise known as Hawkeye, is any good at anything. Every successful mission he completes is _apparently_ down to luck or, in most cases, Agent Romanoff, because the Council can't see past their blind hatred of the archer to what an excellent agent he is. I spent nearly an hour this morning stopping them reassigning Hawkeye to permanent desk duty, not least because him working under me would drive us both utterly insane. And besides, I might not like the infuriating assassin, but he's damn good at his job.

6:45 and I eventually finished up with the Council. I might've looked fine on the outside but somewhere around 6 o' clock my brain had curled up and died without its regular shot of caffeine. It felt like needles were spiking behind my eyes, my hair needed a wash, I couldn't even walk in a straight line and I'm pretty sure my underwear was on back to front. But the job marches on and the second I got out of the Council Chambers I got landed with a whole new load of missions that needed agents assigned to them. Fun times. I worked hectically at that for a long, long time, skim reading each document before pulling up a list of suitable agents and then proceeding to play a jigsaw of who's-available-and-who's-needed-elsewhere-and-who's-injured-and-who's-out-on-mission etc. It's a giant brain ache, so you can see why I snap people's heads off when they complain about their mission assignments. Somewhere in the middle of this Coulson, bless his little cotton socks, brought me a coffee, but I didn't have time to savour the thing or utter anything more than a 'Thank you' as I drained it in one hasty gulp and went back to work. At least my brain started to function at that point.

It was 8:15 before I finally dealt with the last assignment for the day. It would start again tomorrow though, which was a depressing thought. Oh well, no time to be depressed, I had sorting to do. Mission transcripts from Languages and mission briefings from Intelligence and mission statements from the agents themselves had to be matched up, proof read, queried and filed under the time, date, place, agent and handler. Make no mistake, I do have two assistants for some of this, but I have to do anything over Level 5 because they don't have the Clearance Level to read it. Clearance Level 9 does have its perks but being the only one allowed to do certain paperwork (of which there is a lot) is not one of them.

9:30 came and went and it was a whole hour after that when I finally dealt with the rest of the paperwork that had accumulated just last night. 10:30am was not a good time to have been awake for 6 and a half hours already on nothing but caffeine and a few mints I found in my fourth favourite file, but unfortunately I had a meeting with the Avengers at 4pm (about the time Stark hauls his ass out of bed) and if I wanted to make it and not have to stay up all night tonight doing catch up work I did not have time to eat.

Now it was time to track down all of the paperwork that had not been handed in on time. Most agents definitely do not have the guts to take me on over paperwork, so I get most of it handed in on time, but there are a few notable exceptions, the worst of which is Clint Barton himself. Why Romanoff can manage it but he can't I don't know, but one of the things I _do_ regret is that I can't punish Hawkeye with desk duty because really that would just be punishing myself. He knows he's too valuable in the field anyway, so he thinks he has nothing to fear from me. He should really re-evaluate that most unfortunate misconception of his.

I had a splendid time tracking him down through the vents, and when I found him I hauled him down and had a good old scream at him. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Where is your paperwork Agent Barton? It was due last night."

Him, grinning: "Sorry but-"

Me, slowly losing my temper: "No excuses. Where. Is. It."

Him, smiling wider: "It's on Coulson's desk. I dealt with it, just like instructed."

Me, forcibly staying calm: "Shooting three arrows through the stack of paperwork is NOT dealing with it Agent Barton."

Him: "That's not what I'm usually told when I complete my missions." He grinned an absolutely shit eating grin.

I'm slightly ashamed in hindsight to say I slapped him at that point, right across the face. Really though, you can't blame me, I've been chasing him up for nearly a week.

Him, shocked: "Hey! I call abuse!"

Me, hissing furiously: "You _will_ do that paperwork and you _will_ hand it in and you _will_ not mess with me today and you _will_ not be a pain in the Avengers meeting later or so help me god…do I make myself clear?"

Him, even more shocked, because I rarely lose my temper: "Yes ma'am."

Me: "Good." Then I stalked away, feeling slightly better because of the red mark already blooming on his cheek.

By then it was 11:15am, and I was beginning to suffer from crippling stomach cramps. Assuming it was from hunger I stole a muffin and a coffee straight out of a young agent's hands, but their indignant shout of 'Hey!' was cut short when I gave them the patented don't-piss-with-me-I'm-Deputy-Director-Maria-goddam-Hill-I-will-eat-your-complaint-for-breakfast-after-I-finish-with-you glare. And yes, I can convey all that with a look, it's a precise art. But the food didn't help and, being a woman, I knew exactly what was wrong. Damn you Mother Nature, I do not have time to deal with your shit! Still, I had to dash off back to my quarters to sort myself out (my underwear was on back to front just in case you were wondering…which you had better not have been), and I guzzled a few painkillers, pocketed a few sashays of instant coffee, and was off again.

At 12:30 I got a call from Spiderman, otherwise known as the SpiderIdiot. Peter Parker might just be a kid but I wasn't feeling too friendly on the day when he shot webs all over the heli-carrier on a dare from Stark, so suffice to say he always hands any paperwork due to me in on time. Now who says terrorising junior agents, even when they posses meta-human abilities, isn't worth it? Anyway, he called specifically requesting my help with the interrogation of one of our more regular villains, and Parker's own personal nemesis, Deadpool. A quick run through of the general conversation, which was repeated quite a few times, actually it's the same conversation we have every time the indestructible, regenerating, flirtatious assassin is incarcerated in his own special cell on Detention Level 3, went like this:

Me, playing Bad Cop (which really wasn't hard considering my mood): "Tell me what you were up to in Sydney, right now."

Deadpool, grinning madly: "Nuh-uh!"

Parker, a little more calmly: "C'mon Wade, you aren't helping yourself. Just tell us, okay? Seriously, I wouldn't mess with Hill if I were you."

Deadpool, smirking: "Well, since you asked so nicely…"

Me, growling: "Now Wilson. I'm a busy woman."

Deadpool, pretending to be innocent: "Busy doing what?"

Me: "Don't try and change the subject, I'm not in the mood for fun and games."

Deadpool, snorting: "Well I am! What about a jigsaw? Oh, what about charades? Or Call of Duty! I love blowing stuff up."

Parker, visibly holding in his temper: "Sydney Wilson. Tell me what you were doing and I'll bring you a deck of cards, and you can play solitaire."

Deadpool, sarcastically: "Oh yay solitaire! Okay, so…" and then he'd come out with some non-sensical story which we all knew was complete rubbish, especially him because he just enjoys winding us up. Then we would have to start the conversation all over again, with only a few small variations. Eventually I left, having better things to do, even though I knew for a fact that that was exactly what Deadpool wanted and he would escape within the day. Look, as long as he doesn't blow up the entire base or kill anyone when he escapes, which he _usually_ doesn't, I really don't care right now. I might care tomorrow, but that's another day. We can just recapture him, but right now, I've got bigger fish to fry.

At 2:30pm I had to attend a meeting as S.H.I.E.L.D's representative with S.H.A.P.E, the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, basically our European sister group, over what to do about Latveria, the small European country ruled by the dictator and supervillain Victor Von Doom. Dr Doom had been deposed for the nth time and was currently in our custody in the Vault, but we had to decide what to do with the country itself (oh joy, more paperwork). Eventually we decided to place it under S.H.A.P.E's control for now, because whenever we try to install a democracy Dr Doom eventually comes back and kills all of the democrats, and that's a headache we can all do without.

That lead me to 4:05pm, and even though I was technically late for my meeting with the Avengers, I knew I would be one of the first people there.

I arrive, look around the empty conference room, and sigh. I can practically see the tumbleweeds. I sit down and open up some files on my tablet. Might as well check on some on-going long term missions whilst I have a couple of minutes, I know they won't be arriving anytime soon.

Natasha comes in first, dragging a grumpy looking Clint by the hand. They had obviously been training, as they both had ruffled up hair, Natasha was walking with a slight limp and Clint had a cut above his eyebrow to go with the bruise across his cheekbone. I'd probably feel bad but I can't get past the crushing apathy created by no sleep, no food and Mother Nature. Natasha takes one look at me and sends Clint to go and sit on the other side of the room, for which I am eternally grateful. Clint looks at me, smiles apologetically, and immediately plops down at the opposite end of the large conference room, pulling his favourite knife from his pocket and proceeding to sharpen it. Natasha nimbly takes my tablet off me, closes the work documents and opens up Angry Birds, before handing it back. I numbly stare at the screen for a second, but after a pointed look from Natasha I get the message. No more work for me apparently. Still, I refuse to let Stark catch me playing one of his stupid games (yes, Stark owns Angry Birds, he bought it when he got addicted so he could make more levels), so with a sigh I turn off my tablet, and silently hand it to the red head. Natasha gives me an approving look and takes the seat next to me.

"You okay?" she asks, sounding mildly concerned. I can see why, I don't sit around like a lost puppy even on a bad day, so it's pretty obvious something is wrong.

"I'm contemplating mass homicide." I say flatly.

"So, normal then." she smirks slightly.

"Worse."

Natasha almost winces. "Oh." Then: "Do I want to know?"

"I've got every single problem except my own serious physical injury on my plate right now." I sigh, then turn to her, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of my lips. "And get this, Barton's not even a large part of them." We share a knowing look.

"I'm not that bad." huffs Barton, who had quite obviously been listening to our conversation.

I fix him with a steely glare, which is a mild glare for me but right now I can't work up the mental will power to start a fight with Hawkeye. "Today, you shot arrows through your paperwork instead of completing it. Yesterday, you set off hundreds of fireworks in the canteen, apparently in protest of doing your paperwork, and the day before you split water all over all of Coulson's desk, which just happened to ruin all of his paperwork for that entire day."

His blue eyes glitter with mirth. "I just really don't like paperwork."

Natasha and I share a long suffering look, but before we get any further Steve comes in, looking seriously apologetic. "Very sorry I'm late ladies, Clint, but some of the junior agents noticed me and started begging for autographs. I couldn't get away until now."

I loom at Natasha and she grudgingly hands over my tablet. I deftly open a few files. "Voice note to all S.H.I.E.L.D agents under Level 5 clearance: Please refrain from stalking and/or bothering any member of the Avengers or senior staff, or you will have me to deal with. Signed, the Deputy Director." I close my tablet cover with a snap and hand it back to Natasha.

Steve blushes slightly and begins to protest that I needn't have bothered on his behalf, but I wave him away. Poor thing, so chivalrous. In this day and age he'll end up with an aneurism with the way women are treated. "Its fine Steve, hopefully it will shorten the time we have to wait for Stark and his fans in the SciTech and Intelligence branches. If his head swells anymore he won't be able to get through the door."

Steve smiles politely and scoots down the table to sit next to Clint, drawing the archer into a friendly conversation about current military formations. Natasha smiles at them fondly before her expression smoothes back into her trademark emotionless mask. Before my eyes glaze over, I grab a sachet of coffee from my pocket and rip it open, pouring the granules onto my tongue. Natasha watches me, raising a single eyebrow gracefully as I swallow and my pupils dilate when the caffeine hits. "That bad huh?"

I sigh. "Worse. I think this might have been the second worst month of working for S.H.I.E.L.D in the history of ever."

"Only second?" she asks, sounding half as if she doesn't want to know the answer.

"Discovering that we aren't the only people out there, as well as the fact that there are 8 other realms oh, and a superhuman Agsardian is duking it out with a metal giant in the middle of a small town in New Mexico? It creates a lot of paperwork, not to mention diplomatic entanglements."

Natasha nods in agreement, just as Bruce burst into the room, papers bursting from his arms. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry," the actual personification of a mad scientist mutters, "I lost track of time and I forgot the password for getting out of my lab again, so I had to bang on the glass, but of course its sound proof, so no-one could hear me, so…"

"Bruce, its fine. Stark is still not here, as always, and neither is Thor. Your only, oh…15 minutes late, that's not late enough for me to kill you. Just about."

Bruce looks at me as if to try and ascertain whether I'm serious or not, but he obviously can't decide as he scuttles off to sit next to the other men with his tail between his legs. He starts to flick through his huge haphazard pile of papers, and bringing out a pen begins to scribble notes in a seemingly random order all over the place.

I turn to Natasha. "Have you seen Fury today?"

"Yes, actually, I think he's hiding in his office for some reason. Why?"

I smile grimly. "He handed off the 3am nuclear crisis and the Council meeting to me this morning."

Natasha sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Oh he's so dead."

"Will you help me kill him?" I ask, deadly serious.

The Black Widow looks at me for a second. "I'll hold him down and confiscate his weapons while you kill him if you want." she says after a moment of consideration.

My answer is cut short when Thor bangs the door to the conference room open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. "Apologies Midguardian friends!" he booms, "But I could not fathom these tiny little timepieces you give me." He holds up a shattered watch. "Everything on Midguard is so small and breakable." he rumbles, looking a little confused, "But I will try in future to use these objects and not to break them instead!" Thor stands tall and proud as if issuing an oath to protect all watches (which in his mind he probably is), instead of apologising for breaking an inanimate object. Poor guy, he's like a child trapped in a giant's body, clumsy, eager to please and everyone is torn between 'aw-ing' and face-palming at his behaviour.

I gesture at Natasha and she hands me my tablet. "Voice note to Tech: Would someone please buy Thor a digital clock that doesn't break when he picks it up. Thank you. Signed, the Deputy Director." Thor gives me a hasty nod of thanks and bounds over to enthusiastically join in on Steve and Clint's conversation on military formations, loudly talking about Asgardian battle formations both past and present. The men seem interested though, so Natasha and I leave them to it.

"So you hit Clint this morning. Not that I don't do it all the time, but you're usually more restrained and he doesn't bruise easily, so it must have been pretty hard. Should I ask why?" Natasha asked.

"No, you probably shouldn't." She gives me a look. "Fine. I was in a bad mood and I've been chasing your insufferable partner for a week for that paperwork. I know he doesn't like it but really, he was lucky I only slapped him. Firing arrows through it, honest to god. If I had had my swords on me right then he would probably be missing something important right now."

"How important?"

"Very important."

Across the room, Clint winces. Score.

I feel my eyes starting to close, so I grab another sachet of coffee and pour it down my throat, earning a few strange looks from the Avengers who don't usually don't see anything but me being perfectly composed. Ah, they can suck it, I'm not in the mood to radiate being a deadly S.H.I.E.L.D agent right now. I check my watch, and it reads 4:30. I take a deep breath. My biggest challenge is coming right about…now.

Stark strides confidently into the room, his hair perfectly spiked, his sunglasses perched on his nose despite the fact we're indoors, and he's dressed in a suave suit. At least he's not drunk, or hung-over. Drunk Stark is worse than not-drunk Stark, although sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. "Don't worry, I'm here people, the party can start now." He receives a host of blank, unimpressed looks.

Pepper Potts clicks in behind her boyfriend / boss, a clipboard clutched to her chest and her hair nervously tucked behind her ears. She clips him on the back of his head, and he turns to her with a kicked puppy expression. She's completely unaffected of course. "Go and sit down Tony, and stop showing off. It's unbecoming, especially when you've made us late by refusing to get out of bed. I'm sorry everyone, on behalf of us both." Everyone acknowledges her good sense with a polite smile.

Stark mutters something about being fashionably late, but since he's _technically_ a genius he knows it's never a good idea to argue with his girlfriend, so he goes and sits down next to his so called 'Science Bro', and starts to write extensive notes and make adjustments to his partners crazy scribbles.

Pepper hurries over and sits down on the other side of me to Natasha. "I'm terribly sorry ladies, Tony was a bit of a handful today, he didn't go to bed until 6am because he was working out some formulae for the Einstein-Rosenburg bridge Jane Foster is working on for S.H.I.E.L.D. You know what that is right?"

I roll my eyes. "Please, SciTech won't stop salivating over the research and Operations are getting annoyed because they keep slipping in the puddles." Natasha snorts at my statement, and Pepper smiles politely. Ah well, S.H.I.E.L.D humour isn't meant for civilians.

"Well, I'm glad you understand," the CEO says, "because I have no idea what on earth it is. Tony said something about a magical rainbow bridge, but I think he was drunk at the time. I only took middle school science, and half the time it's like Tony's not even speaking English!"

Natasha looks over at Clint, who is gesticulating about some battle or another with some technical field agent jargon, while Steve listens intently and Thor looks confused at all the acronyms and lingo. "Tell me about it." Natasha sighs. "I can speak 104 different languages fluently and I still don't know what Clint goes on about half the time."

I wink at both of them and climb to my feet. My head pounds worryingly and my stomach cramps are back, but as they say, the show must go on. I just about manage not to fall over as I head to the top of the conference table in front of the big screen. I click my fingers and the lights dim, which succeeds in getting everyone's attention.

"Now that everyone is here," I say with a significant look at Stark, who isn't bothered in the slightest, "we can start. First of all, because this needs to be said but Fury would rather gouge out his good eye than admit it, we are very pleased with your progress as a team, you are starting to follow orders well whilst making tactical, on-field decisions that include the strengths and cover the weaknesses of _all_ of your team members. Steve, you are an exemplary leader and we're starting to add you as an example in the programme for team leading." The Captain blushes at the compliment, and blushes even harder when all of the Avengers nod in agreement. "Barton, Romanoff, perfect as always, just try and remember to tell the rest of the team before you do your secret-ninja-disappearing trick, oh, and Barton, hand in your paperwork for gods sake." Both of the assassins smirk slightly, as if to say 'no promises'. "Bruce, your medical expertise on this team is invaluable, and the Hulk is causing much less unnecessary damage." Bruce smiles and ducks his head. "Thor, you are a fine warrior, but try and remember it's not the best idea to shout out your intentions to the 'heinous villains' when the aim is surprise." Thor nods his head, although I don't think he appreciates being told what to do by me, who he sees as close to a civilian. I'd show him otherwise but I really don't have the time to start a fight with a god. "Stark, you are learning how to take orders but insulting Fury every ten seconds isn't doing you any favours, and neither is constantly turning up late. You hack S.H.I.E.L.D on your every whim, not realising how many Trojans have piggybacked through your systems and into ours." Stark looks mortally offended as I insult his hacking skills, but I'm not done yet. "Look, I get that you're trying your best to be a team player, which you've never done before, but your planet sized ego is pushing everyone away. You're getting better, but it needs to happen faster. Maybe you could start by listening to Pepper."

I hope for a second that I've knocked him speechless but that is, as always, a futile wish. "Don't insult my hacking like that, they aren't any Trojans in Jarvis to piggyback on into your crappy systems, and anyway, if it were me hacking you then you wouldn't know it was happening till months afterwards."

I sigh and look up at the ceiling. "Despite popular belief you are _not_ the world's best hacker Stark, and nor is Jarvis. We are a top secret para-military organisation, if we couldn't detect when some bored billionaire decides to hack our systems I doubt we'd still be around to be mad at you. Besides, the Nyan cat on ten hour repeat with your face on it ring any bells?"

Tony pouts. "That was one time."

Natasha rounds on him, her eyes blazing with green fire. "That was you?" she hisses. "That infernal noise went through all of our comms as well, you nearly got me killed because the Russian Mafia nearly realised I was wearing a wire! A couple of other agents were seriously injured because of your little joke. I'll have your head mounted on my bedroom wall for this." she states, her voice silky smooth and extremely deadly.

"Natasha, I don't think threatening Tony is very productive towards forming stronger team bonds." Steve puts in.

Barton's head snaps around to glare at the supersoldier. "Don't turn Natasha nearly dying because Tony felt like fucking around into a team building exercise. If she says she nearly died, it means she was a whisker away from death. If Stark endangered her, I'll hold him down while she cuts his head of with a blunt paperclip."

"Holding down the enemy is a cowardly act!" booms Thor. "Real warriors allow their enemy a weapon and offer a good fight before death!"

"Yeah, and my weapon would be my suit." Tony jumps to his feet, attempting to tower over Barton. "Which would kick your ass so hard you wouldn't be able to find it afterwards!"

Barton climbs leisurely to his feet, radiating intimidation as he stares Tony right in the eyes. "You just try it Tin Man, see where you end up."

Natasha snorts. "I'll console Pepper afterwards."

"The testosterone levels in here are overwhelming." mutters Bruce.

"Don't you start!" grumps Tony at his 'ScienceBro'. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"Hey, leave Bruce be!" commands Natasha.

By now all of the Avengers are on their feet, pointing fingers and yelling and threatening and posturing and generally ignoring both me and this meeting. Even Pepper is on her feet, simultaneously defending Tony and shouting at him to calm down. The noise escalates and escalates, and my head pounds dangerously with every shout and angry word. My temper starts to build with the pain that they are causing me, unknowingly or not, and they act as if I am not even present in the room. Children, they are all acting like children in a playground, not the seamless team I spend half my time presenting them to the public and the Council as.

'_Why do I put up with this?_' I ask myself, and that one question opens up the flood gates. _'Why? What's the point, I'm not getting anywhere with this. I could leave this meeting and they wouldn't even notice I was gone._ _This happens to me all the damn time, with them, with normal agents, with the Council and with Fury. It seems everyone worries about upsetting everyone but me. Well I've had it. I'm done. I don't care anymore_.' I suddenly realise, and my temper builds even further. I no longer bother with trying to stay calm, the deep breaths and happy thoughts obviously aren't working. Instead I let my temper go, completely relinquishing control. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Before I know it I've grabbed a knife and have slammed it deep into the conference table. "ENOUGH!" I scream, and the Avengers all freeze and go silent. Slowly, one by one they turn to look at me. I watch as their wide eyes travel from the shaking knife protruding on the table to me, panting hard and flushed with anger.

"I QUIT! I FUCKING QUIT! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I WON'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! SCREW THIS FUCKING JOB, I QUIT!" Silence reigns for a second, shell-shocked faces all around me with gaping open mouths. I see Natasha recover herself and open her mouth to speak, but I don't give her the chance. "NO, DON'T TALK TO ME, IT'S YOUR GODDAMN PROBLEM NOW, BECAUSE I QUIT! S.H.I.E.L.D NO LONGER HAS A DEPUTY DIRECTOR, YOU CAN JUST FUCKING DEAL WITHOUT ME! I QUIT!" I scream for good measure, then turn on my heel and slam the door closed. Bloody crescents are carved into my palms from where my nails have dug into my palms, and my whole body is positively vibrating with rage. I storm away from the conference room, breathing heavily and resting my hand on the gun at my side.

A few agents watch me walk past in horror, mouths wide open in shock. They must have heard me through the conference room door, or maybe it's the fact I flick my knife into a camera as I pass, showering white hot glass all over the hallway. I hiss at the staring agents, who jump and scamper away at top speed, obviously going to go and start the rumour mill running. Fine, I don't care, I'll be out of here by the end of tomorrow anyway. The rumour mill can spin away, it'll have me as single-handedly taking down the Avengers by tomorrow morning.

Every single person I pass hurries out of my way, comical looks of terror on their faces that would've been funny if I wasn't so angry. Instead, they bring me a sick sort of pleasure; this is why S.H.I.E.L.D fears me. One young male agent doesn't get out of my way fast enough, and I motor past him, barging into his shoulder and knocking him into the floor. He lets out a yelp but when I turn on my heel and glare at him, his face quickly pales and he shuts up in record time.

I eventually reach my quarters after passing through about half of S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, with agents crowding the halls to watch me storm past. I slam the door on the crowd of agents, who seem to think I don't know that they're following me, with a resounding bang. Sliding down the inside of my door I close my eyes, the absolute fury sliding slightly under the surface until it's bubbling lava rather than an all out explosion.

I take a deep breath and run my hands through my hair, pulling out my ponytail and letting my hair fall around my shoulders. Knowing that in about an hours time the news will reach the highest level in S.H.I.E.L.D and I will have some unwelcome visitors, I decide to make the most of the time I have. Besides, I don't think I've had an hour to myself in weeks.

I smile slightly, and pull of my boots, carelessly dropping them in the hallway. I take great pleasure in stripping of the S.H.I.E.L.D issue catsuit as I sway towards my little bathroom, and I jump into the shower with a grin. The 15 minutes I spend in the shower are pure bliss, the hot water cascading down, massaging the shampoo and conditioner through my hair; it's thoroughly relaxing. Jumping out again, I feel a little more rational, and a lot more like a member of the human race instead of a government issue machine.

I grin as I settle down on the stool in front of my mirror, taking the time to slowly blow dry my hair and then curl it into soft curls. I let my hair rest loosely around my shoulders, and then apply minimal make up, foundation and eye liner and my favourite soft red lip stick, just for the enjoyment I find in the process of dressing up.

I pull jeans and a beautiful red top out from the back of my wardrobe, which is sadly dominated with S.H.I.E.L.D issue clothing and business suits. Yuck, horrid uncomfortable things. It is such a relief not to be wearing something skin tight, so I don't have to feel the eyes of men constantly trailing up and down my body. As a female spy, at least 60% of my expected job was seduction, which was why I quickly opted for leadership over field work. A deadly assassin I was, a seductress I was not.

I pad through into my kitchen with bare feet, the only thing ruining the façade of normality being the gun tucked into my waistband. I have a feeling I'll be using it to threaten off any visitors soon enough.

Never one for cooking I grab a ready meal lasagne and shove it in the microwave. As I wait for it to warm through I pour myself a glass of red wine, and sit down at the table. The blue light of my laptop flickers as I switch it on, entering a complex series of passcodes and flicking through secret files to access my own security system situated in the corridors around my room, in the canteen, in the entrance way, a few that track high level agents and the Avengers around and even one in Fury's office (it pays to be paranoid).

So, I have the pleasure of watching the entertainment that is Natasha Romanoff striding into Fury's office to angrily inform him that I've quit, and watching his mouth drop open in shock and then his eyes slowly widen with horror. Fabulous. He begins to shoot rapid fire questions at Natasha, rapidly marching back and forth and basically going into full scale panic mode. It's nice to see he knows S.H.I.E.L.D is going to fall apart without me.

"Godammit Hill, why are your vents screwed shut!" a frustrated voice shouts from my bedroom. I pause for a second, going for my gun, before recognising the voice. Ah, Barton. To be honest I'd been wondering when he'd show up. I grab my gun anyway, never hurts to be prepared to threaten people, and scoop up my glass of wine before going into my bedroom.

I see Barton's annoyed face poking through the vent grating and smile in spite of myself. Someone looks annoyed.

He looks at me and pouts. "A little help?"

"No, I don't think so. I like you right there." I pretend to shoot him with my gun and he grins widely.

"Loving the look." he smiles down at me when he notices I'm not in my usual ensemble. "I especially like the hair."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "I think you just damaged your manly pride saying that. I'm pretty sure you manly men aren't supposed to notice things like that."

He rolls his eyes. "I live in extremely close quarters with the world's greatest seductress in life or death situations for the vast majority of my time, and you know I spent four and a half months on _that_ mission pretending to be a hairdresser. Plus, it would be rude to ignore such beauty."

I take a sip of wine to hide my smile. "What do you want Barton?"

"To find out if you're really leaving and see if I can persuade you not to."

I sigh. "Yes, I am leaving, and no, you can't stop me."

He sticks his bottom lip out, and threads his fingers through the vent. It must be pretty uncomfortable for him stuck up there, I'm surprised he hasn't left yet. I didn't know he cared. "Not even if I apologise for being an annoying little shit at the best of times and promise to at least try and do my paperwork?"

"Why the concern?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I'm the tyrant who makes you do paperwork and slaps you round the face." He rubs the bruise on his cheek ruefully. "I would've though you'd be rejoicing at me throwing a fit and leaving."

"Yeah, but I kinda like working for S.H.I.E.L.D, and you're a massive part of this organisation. Everyone knows you do all the boring crap that holds this place together, including chasing me around for paperwork. Besides, you know I enjoy the chase, and whose gonna save my ass when I'm on missions by myself? Huh? I'll be a corpse within the next nine months if you aren't around to fix everything for me."

I take another sip of my wine. "Yeah, but why are you here? You aren't one for admitting these things."

Clint smiles his famous and much employed shit-eating smile. "Because Romanoff is blaming me and she says I have to apologise because, and I quote, 'if you drive away the sanest person in the entire goddamn organisation by being a fucking moron I will personally end you', unquote. And Tasha is one scary woman, so I apologise for all of my moronic tendencies and promise not to make you chase me around for paperwork for more than a week in future."

"That's very kind Agent Barton-"

He cuts me off. "Please, when I'm in your bedroom, call me Clint." He smiles a dirty little smile, and I almost drop my wine glass in surprise and not a little horror.

"Ew! God's above Barton that was straight up disgusting." I say with a shudder before I can compose myself. He smiles even wider and blows me a kiss through the vent.

"Anyway, _Clint_," I say, and he wriggles his eyebrows. I roll my eyes sardonically and continue. "It's kind of you to apologise for being a first class pain in my neck, but, hard as it may be to believe, you aren't the reason I…well, frankly I lost it."

He snorts. "I told Natasha it was egocentric to assume this was all my fault. I'm not Stark, I don't think everything revolves around me. Besides, even _I'm_ not enough all by myself to make _you_ lose it that badly. Anyway, I digress. I'm sorry for contributing to whatever has been stressing you out, oh, and I'm sorry for sitting in your vent like an oversized dust mite."

I chuckle slightly. "Thank you Bar-Clint. An apology is always nice. Let's just hope a few certain other people have the same plan, shall we? Oh, and on the topic of you on solo missions, if you didn't antagonise all of your targets so much, I'm sure you wouldn't get into such hot water. Then I wouldn't have to save your ass all the time."

He tilts his head to the side. "Oh, but annoying people is half the fun."

I can't help but huff with laughter at his familiar antics. He, despite our differences, is one of the few people in this organisation I would trust with my life. Hell, I might even miss him. Now that is a weird thought. "This heart to heart has been very nice, but I think my dinner is burning and I'm going to have some visitors that are a lot more unwelcome than you in a minute. I think you had better leave."

"It has been an honour working with you, Agent Maria Hill. I'll miss you if you quit. Oh, and try not to shoot anyone important with that gun, I'd hate to see you on my cross off list."

I grin into my now empty wine glass. "Get out of here Barton, or you won't have to worry about anyone else having a bullet in them." I smile all the way through my threat, looking him in the eyes despite the fact he's lying above me in my air vent.

He laughs, the sound echoing around him, warping the sound. "Always the same Agent Hill." His laughter still echoes even after he has long disappeared back down the vent.

What a loveable moron.

I pull my lasagne out of the microwave and stand leaning against the counter, too hungry to wait for it to cool. I grab a spoon and scarf it down while the cheese is still bubbling with the heat, and it burns my throat but since I haven't eaten much at all today I really don't care. Besides, a sip of wine sorts it out.

Just in case you're worrying, I have a very high alcohol tolerance, I won't get roaring drunk anytime soon. Besides, I meet need a little liquid courage to deal with the wrath of Fury when he turns up.

I take a look at the camera in Fury's office and nearly drop my lasagne from shock. I manage to juggle it without dropping it, and dump it on the work surface, boiling hot mince landing on my hand. I wince and suck it off, eyes trained on the camera. The hell?

I sit down heavily at my kitchen table, pulling the laptop towards me and refreshing the screen, to check it's not broken. Well, apparently it's not broken, although my jaw might be after it hit the floor.

Fury is holding a meeting with the Avengers and like half of S.H.I.E.L.D's senior staff. And he looks…scared.

"So basically Captain Hook, what your saying is, if Hill leaves, S.H.I.E.L.D is going down, and the rest of the world not soon after." Stark asks, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it stylishly.

"Yep." Fury grunts, not even bothering to glare at Stark for yet another poor quality pirate joke. Wow, he is really stressed.

"Damn, I like the world. It makes me rich and famous." Stark receives a host of glares from all around the office, which he ignores with admirable pig-headedness.

"With all due respect sir, I don't understand how S.H.I.E.L.D could let one person hold so much power over the entire organisation. What if Agent Hill ever turned?" Steve asks, stood with his hands behind his back, a soldier to the core. I'd be offended if it wasn't such a sensible question.

"Hill wouldn't turn." says a shadow in the corner. I can only tell its Natasha because I recognise her voice, I can't even make out her form she's concealed so well. Damn she's good at her job. "She simply wouldn't. I would know, I'm an expert on reading people. She's devoted her life to this hell hole, she's almost given her life on numerous occasions too."

"But I don't understand how one person, even the Deputy Director, quitting could spell the end for S.H.I.E.L.D, a massive multi-national semi-evil corporation that employs thousands of the world's deadliest men and women and basically saves the world twice a day." Bruce looks really puzzled, and he's actually put down his science notes for a second. Good god this must be serious. And besides, we save the world three times a day, not twice. Honestly, some people.

"Because," Fury almost growls, never one to like his judgement or rare shows of faith in other people being questioned, "Hill handles everything in this organisation. Every mission you lot get sent on? Hill has already taken the information from Intelligence and Logistics, cross referenced it, determined a threat level, worked out who to assign it to and alerted their handler. Then she remotely overseas most of the high priority or risk missions, like yours, personally saves everyone's asses on a regular basis, alerts PR to what they need to cover up and keep out of the media and to what they should promote, then she deals with all of the after mission paperwork, collecting, sorting and filing it all. She also runs negotiations with terrorist groups and governments alike, just this morning Hill prevented World War III, and she deals with the Council when they want to have the lot of you shipped off to Medical Research. And she does all of that for nearly every mission we run. So, if she really does decide to leave, you lot had better have picked out a nice gravestone."

Wow, okay. Fury seems to appreciate me a lot more than I thought. It's kind of weird to see him handing out any praise to anyone, let alone little old me.

"Mine's black, with gold writing and a gold arrow on it. It says 'Clint Barton, archer extraordinaire. Hawkeye:' and then my kill count, which I won't list as Tasha will totally contest it." pipes up a voice seemingly from nowhere. Everyone turns from side to side, searching for the source of the comment, except for Natasha, Fury and Coulson, who all sigh and roll their eyes.

"Barton get the hell out of my vents, and get your ass down here. I called this meeting ten minutes ago, and even Stark showed up! You know how serious this is, where the hell have you been?" Fury yells, back to his old, bad-tempered self in an instant.

Barton hoists himself out of the vent and drops soundlessly to the floor, looking uncharacteristically serious. "I was doing a little recon on the situation."

"And?" queries Coulson.

"We're screwed." Barton admits.

"Dammit." hisses Fury.

"Avez-vous des excuses?" Natasha asks pointedly, the threat clear in her tone.

"Oui!" Barton sighs exasperatedly. I have to admit, I'm quite enjoying this, it's like a S.H.I.E.L.D issue soap opera. "I apologised for being a first class a-hole and I even promised to try and do paperwork! I went as far as to compliment her hairstyle, which was seriously damaging to my inflated male ego."

"Agent Barton, we need details."

"Yeah, sure," he grins, "But first…" Barton turns to look right at where my camera is stationed, and grins. "Sorry about this Hill, but fun time is over, and the plan won't work if you're in on it. This is Clint Barton, signing away his life to a vengeful Deputy Director. Peace!" and then he reaches up and jams an arrow through my camera. The screen goes blank and the last decent picture I have is of Barton's looming face, the Avengers all looking at him like he's insane and Coulson and Romanoff rolling their eyes at the bird. He is such a drama queen, he couldn't just cut the camera wire, and he had to stick an arrow through my lovely tech. I paid FitzSimmons two favours for those little cameras, _damn_ Barton and his Hawk vision and his legendary observational skills and _damn_ him to hell. I was enjoying that.

Then I realise: everything Barton knows, Romanoff knows too. I must remember to thank Natasha for not cutting the feed any earlier, because that whole episode is going on my personal hard drive so I can watch it in the future and laugh hysterically, and possibly rub my hands together in maniacal glee.

I slowly finish off my lasagne, deep in thought, and silently curse the fact that I only put one camera in the Director's office when I was supposed to be sweeping it for bugs. Really, that was just poor planning

Anyway, there was just one last piece of paperwork I was obliged to fill out for this place before I was free to go, well free-but-under-covert-surveillance-from-S.H.I.E.L.D because no-one here trusts anyone for shit, and for good reason, but still, there'd be no more paperwork except for this. My resignation.

_Director Fury,_

_This is a letter of resignation tended due to me being unable to cope with the stress I am under in my job for any longer. I apologise for any issues this may cause to you or to S.H.I.E.L.D as a whole but this is my final decision._

_Regards,_

_Agent Maria Hill, ex- Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D_

I smile, part in triumph but also with sadness. S.H.I.E.L.D really is my life, I eat, sleep and breathe espionage. No wonder I'm always so stressed. I print myself a copy, and then hesitate, before deciding against sending the printer in Fury's office a copy. As fun as it is to imagine Fury's face if I was cheeky enough to do that, it would change his mood from as close to remorseful as a spymaster ever gets to extremely pissed off, and I do _not_ want to deal with that right now.

A sharp knock sounds at my door, one that I recognise immediately. Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

I stand up slowly, pulling myself together with my mask on and my armour in place, tucking my gun into the back of my jeans and grabbing a few other, less lethal weapons as well as the resignation letter. This was going to be bad.

I pad bare foot over to my front door, and take a deep breath. In…and out. Then, I wrench the door open.

"Director Fury." I say with a nod. Examining the man in front of me I wince internally. I see this look often enough, working along side the Director everyday, this is the look which says that if he could, Fury would let you _burn_. It doesn't matter if you've blown up a S.H.I.E.L.D base, are a psychopathic mass murderer, a god with daddy issues from another Realm or even if you've just stolen his eye patch, the look is the same. And right now, it's burning into my soul.

"Maria." he says grimly. I quirk an eyebrow. Maria? Since when were we on first name terms? Apart from that I stay dangerously professional, not a single muscle in my body is relaxed.

"Why are you here Director." I rap out in my most professionally cold voice, "I've made my position quite clear, and you were never one for flogging a dead horse."

"What do you think you're doing Hill?" he says bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

I look at him with confusion evident on my face. "Excuse me?" I ask. Internally, I'm running a seriously angry monologue. _'Who the hell does he think he is to me to talk to me like that, he's treating me like a criminal or worse, like an agent he's reprimanding. I am not one of his goddamn agents here to do what he says, I was made the Deputy Director because I stand up to him and his stupid, pig headed ways, and now I'm standing up for myself he looks down on me? Oh no he did not…'_

"If you were upset, you've made your point." Fury steps through the doorway and leans on the door, leaving me unable to angrily slam it in his face. Regrettably, he's just that good. "We can work on whatever the problem is, just stop this now. You've got half of S.H.I.E.L.D crying for their mothers."

"Well excuse me for exercising my right to choose my own job, and my own life." I say in my most deceptively calm tone. I take a step forward so that I am invading Fury's personal space, although unlike most people, he doesn't even flinch when a deadly ex-assassin gets close enough to bite out his other eye. "I have left my position within this organisation which means you no longer hold any authority over me. Now here is my resignation," I shove the now crumpled letter at his chest and watch his good eye widen with some unknown emotion, "and please get the hell out of my rooms."

"No." snaps Fury, "I have more to say."

"Well I don't want to listen to it. Goodbye."

"Maria-" he starts before I cut him off.

"I will use force Fury." I growl, and he frowns, looking puzzled. But, he still doesn't move, he just stands there, looking at me with his one good eye slightly narrowed.

I make a noise half between a sigh and a growl. "Fine." I grab my lip stick taser, and zap him with it, with just enough charge to make him jolt and rock unsteadily on his feet. I put both my hands on his shoulders and shove bodily him out of the door, watching him stumble backwards and into the hallway.

"Goodnight Director." I snap, and bang the door closed in his face.

I purse my lips and heave out a long sigh as I close my eyes and knock my head back against the door with a clunk. That actually went better than I expected. I didn't _even_ have to cause him any bodily harm. I must remember to thank FitzSimmons for that lipstick taser before I leave, those two kids are so smart.

"You know, in most circles it's considered impolite to tase people. You should work on that." an unexpected but not unknown voice calls out from somewhere in my quarters.

"Oh for the love of god…" I mutter, resisting the temptation to run a hand through my hair because it would totally kill my hairstyle. This man, this goddamn ninja of epic proportions. And if he's on my case…I'm so screwed. "Are you Batman or something?"

"Please." the voice snips as I pad back towards my kitchen, "We both know I'm far better than Batman ever was."

"True enough." I mutter as I round the doorway to my kitchen. "Agent Phil Coulson."

The man in question looks up from where he's sat at my kitchen table, and smiles his signature smile. His tie is red (like the blood of his enemies) and his suit is black as pitch, not a single piece of lint or a crease denting its immaculate surface.

"Agent Maria Hill." he responds in kind.

I survey him for a second, and recognise that he's doing the same to me with those cool grey eyes of his. I sigh in something very similar to defeat when I see the determination in his gaze, resigning myself to what is most likely going to be my fate. Pretending not to be bothered in the slightest I sashay over to the counter and scoop the remains of my lasagne into the bin. "Do I even want to know how you got in here Phil?"

He shakes his head, then quirks an eyebrow, obviously making a decision. "That's a lot of catsuits in one wardrobe Maria."

I snort. "The hell is this, Narnia?"

Phil grins. "That would make you Mr Tumnus."

"The White Witch is much more fitting, I assure you that most of S.H.I.E.L.D would agree. Drink?" I ask, pouring myself another glass of red wine. I knew I wasn't going to get out of this particular agent by tasering him and shoving him out of the door, that's for sure.

"I'll have what you're having."

I shrug and pour him a glass of wine, before going to sit down across the table from him. "So they're sending in the big guns huh?" I ask sardonically.

"Yep." he states without a hint of anything but good humour. "So, do you want to talk?"

"Which S.H.I.E.L.D agent in the history of anywhere ever wants to _talk_?"

"But you're going to." Unfortunately it's a statement, not a question.

"Sure as hell looks like it, doesn't it?" I sigh, resigned.

Phil leans forward, lacing his hands together, concern etched on his face. "What's up Maria?" he asks softly.

"The ceiling." I reply petulantly, stealing one of Barton's favourite lines.

"Maria!" Phil admonishes. Then he pauses. "Wow, something is wrong with you. You aren't the childish type."

I take a long sip of my wine. "Ugh, tell me about it."

I watch him tick 'she's being informal too' off his mental list. "I'll swear too if you want."

He starts. "What?"

"For your mental list of 'what's wrong with Maria'. I can see you compiling it from here."

Coulson snorts. "I think you already managed the swearing quite competently."

I think back to when I lost my temper in the conference room and fight to conceal a blush. Oops, looks like Thor and Steve learned some new modern, Midguardian swear words today.

Phil shoots me a knowing look. I wave a hand at him dismissively. "So what, I'm acting a little out of character. It doesn't change the fact that I quit this stupid job."

Phil doesn't respond, instead he stands up and grabs a weird blue stick out of his jacket pocket and scans me over, a strange blue light running over my features. Then the light starts to tingle slightly, which makes me cringe at the strange sensation. "Hey, cut that out!"

"Sorry." says Phil as he puts the device away, not looking very sorry at all. "Just checking that you're you. Because to me this whole situation is pretty surreal, and when someone starts acting out of character in our line of work, well…"

"Please," I scoff, "No villain is going to replace little old me with a robot or a clone or some other impersonator. Fury, yes, the Avengers, definitely, you, go for it, but no-one sees me as a threat."

Phil smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Yes but that's why we always beat the villains. They're just not smart enough to realise what, or rather _who_, holds this place together."

I fan myself, not having to pretend to be flattered at the praise. "Oh là là, a girl might faint with all the praise I've been receiving today." Phil says nothing, just drinks his wine and looks at me with an unreadable expression. "Alright, why are you here Phil?" So sue me, I'm not in a patient mood today.

"To inform you of something." He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, cool as a freaking cucumber.

"Well then?" I ask impatiently after a brief pause. Gods, I _am_ in a bad mood today, I never snap at Phil. I mean, he's _Phil_!

"If you quit your job, then I'll be forced to quit mine." His face is dead and his eyes are hard, otherwise I would seriously think he was joking.

I gasp. "But you love your job."

"Yep." he says, straight faced, with no hint of a bluff on his features.

"You _died_ for your job."

"Yep."

"And you're going to leave it to make a point to me?" I asked incredulously.

"Yep." He calmly sips his wine.

I throw my hands up in the air and sigh. "And this is why you're the big guns. If the fear doesn't get you, the guilt will. Sorry Phil, but I'm serious when I say I can't take this job anymore, I'll go psycho, Loki style." Phil winces. "Oh gods, sorry, that was insensitive, but I suppose its fitting. I'll go down and I'll take you with me."

Coulson eyes me for a long moment, before coming to some kind of decision. "I'm going to tell you a story."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm going to tell you a story." he repeats calmly.

"O-okay." I reply, quirking an eyebrow.

"It was about a year after Barton became one of my agents-" he starts before I cut him off.

"Wow wow wow, hold on a minute, I don't want to know some personal story about Barton, that's a class one betrayal of trust right there." I wave my hands around in a stopping motion. "I avoid any and all personal stories about the people I know and only mildly despise."

"It's fine, I already cleared telling you with Clint." he reassures me.

"You really do think of everything."

"It's my job. So anyway, a long time ago, in a city far, far away…" he takes a sip of his wine giving me ample opportunity to mutter 'nerd', which I do. "Anyway, so you know about a year after Barton joined S.H.I.E.L.D, and one day he suddenly went AWOL, ripping out his tracker and leaving behind his beloved bow and everything?"

I smile with the memory. "Yeah, it was the first truly panic worthy inner-S.H.I.E.L.D crisis I had to deal with after I got promoted to the Agent Management Board as well as running Missions."

Coulson grins. "I was so proud of you. Anyway, I put my own, special Agent Coulson trackers in all my agents, because when they go on the run or get captured, which they invariably do, the first thing that goes is the S.H.I.E.L.D issue tracker, so when Clint went on the run I knew when he was. San Francisco. I tracked him down-"

"Yeah," I cut in, "you just disappeared off the face of planet Earth as well, talk about giving me a heart attack."

He chuckles. "Yeah well, it's my duty as a handler. So, where were we. Ah yes, I tracked him down to a crappy motel in the downtown area, only to find my tracker, covered in blood, and a note, written in his scrappy, scrawly handwriting. It read:

_Dear Coulson (because you're the only one who'll follow me),_

_You don't need to look for me, I'm fine, or rather, I will be. You helped me realise the error in what I've done, so I've gone to fix it. I'm sorry for the arrow I put through your thigh when we first met, I'm sorry for the fight I put up when in reality you rescued me from my former life, and I'm sorry for all the extra paperwork this will make you fill out on my behalf. I just wanted to say, you were the first person ever who made me a promise, and kept it. I won't be a problem for you anymore._

_Signed,_

_Clint Barton_."

"Oh god," I whisper, "He left…"

"A suicide note." finishes Phil, sounding slightly chocked up. "Yeah, he did."

"Oh god." I repeat brokenly, shakily reaching for my glass of wine. "Oh Barton." I whisper.

"It was a long, long time ago. I expect you to treat him no differently than you would've before." Phil says sternly. "So, moving on. Being the amazing handler that I am, I knew where he would go, if he was going to…kill himself."

"The Golden Gate Bridge." I mutter. Phil starts in surprise and looks at me in mild shock. "What? I pay attention. Whenever he's upset he goes to high places. And the highest place in 'cisco is the bridge."

"You're good." Phil mutters, as if he's surprised. I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you were agent good, not people good." he explains. Good excuse, if I thought he was insulting my competence he might end up with a shattered wine glass to the neck the way my day was going.

"I'm a woman, I multitask; I'm perfectly good at being both simultaneously. Now talk, I want to hear the rest of the story."

"Of course, oh demanding one." he teases, before returning to seriousness. "So I found him, sat morosely on the very edge of the bridge, looking down at the water with his 'deep in thought' face on. So, without further ado, I jumped the barrier, sat down next to him and handcuffed us together."

"You handcuffed yourself to a suicidal assassin?" I yelp incredulously. Yep, I knew it, Phil is insane.

"Hey, I'm still here aren't I? My judgement is sound. So anyway, Clint just looked at me, looked at the handcuffs and burst out laughing. He didn't stop for around ten minutes, we just sat on the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge, him laughing and me sat there watching him. When he calmed down he just looked at me and said 'Really? Phil Coulson you fucking smug bastard, what makes you think I won't take you with me?' So I looked him in the eyes, just like I'm doing to you right now, and said 'Because I know you. You care more about others than you do about yourself. And this is selfish, Clinton Francis Barton, and you know it."

"Maybe I want to be selfish for once." I mutter, knowing all to well what Phil is telling me with his little 'story'.

Phil shrugs. "And that's where the story splits. Even though what Clint did was a matter of circumstance, he still did and does feel guilty for it. He thinks he was selfish, silly bugger, so he was easy to guilt trip out of jumping. Now you, however, are the opposite. You've always been too selfless, putting pretty much everyone over yourself, especially in this damn job, and you've had it, haven't you? You cracked, blew up, exploded, imploded, went loopy, round the corner and up the bend, read everyone the riot act. You gonna tell me why?"

"It's kind of rude that you're comparing me leaving my job to Barton going bridge jumping." Phil fixes me with the look and I sigh, crumpling easily under the designated 'Phil glare' reserved for me. Damn man has a specific glare for everyone that makes them crumble, even Fury. I briefly give Phil a run down of my absolutely appalling day, his eyebrows rising further and further with each point I make. After I finish with the argument at the Avengers meeting he whistles in appreciation. "Ouch." he states. I nod once. He looks deep in thought for a moment, and I recognise his plotting face. Wonderful, another scheme to deflect.

"So what you're saying is, the stress got to you because you had a really bad day?"

I sigh, twirling one of my curls around my finger. "I don't know Phil. I've had too much work for a while, I've been getting up earlier and earlier and going to bed later and later. Last night I got an hour and a half of sleep. The night before I got two and a quarter, and for three consecutive nights before that I didn't have time to go to sleep at all. The last time I had a full nights sleep was six months ago when I assigned myself to the rescue squad for the Memphis mission and was sedated for 8 hours because I got shot. And do you know when I woke up, I was really mad because all I could think about was how much I could've got done in those 8 hours! It's ridiculous! I'm ridiculous. And I can't do this anymore, okay? I can't deal with the mountains of paperwork and the moaning agents, the hateful glares that I get when I walk through the corridors because I didn't have the time to listen to a million and one complaints and problems, I can't deal with the nuclear crises at 3 in the morning and every single Council meeting simply because Fury can't be bothered, I can't deal with a screaming argument just because the Avengers are having an off day. I can't have an off day, S.H.I.E.L.D can't have that, now can they? Anyone else can have an off day, you get to fly off on your plane with Ward and Mei when it all gets too much, Fury hands off his duties to me to go and visit his nieces, the Avengers go AWOL whenever they damn well please, but I haven't had a day off in six years. Six whole freaking years of none stop working, and people are surprised when I lost my temper! Frankly I'm surprised I haven't gone on a homicidal rampage!" I clap both hands over my mouth, shocked by my out of character emotional flooding. I don't do emotions, people say Romanoff is an open book compared to me. And usually, they're right.

I watch Phil carefully, torn by horror at my outburst and some kind of bizarre hope that he will provide some miraculous solution. Even after working for S.H.I.E.L.D for most of my adult life, I can still believe in miracles, especially where Phil Coulson is concerned. The man actually died and came back to life, which qualifies as a miracle by itself. I wouldn't put another one past him.

Phil, for his part, is looking studiously into the middle distance above my shoulder, his eyebrows scrunched together and his mouth twitched into a frown, obviously thinking hard. "So…" he says after a long pause, "You're problem is not the job, but the quantity of the job."

"I'm drowning in paperwork and meetings." I say. It was supposed to be funny, but it came out like a confession.

"Right. so, the question remains, do you really want to quit?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know!" I throw my hands in the air in exasperation and bury my face in my hands.

Phil leans on his hands, fixing me with his sternest gaze. "It seems to me that you like, or rather occasionally enjoy your job as Deputy Director, but you've just got too much work for one person, hmm? If we try to fix some of your issues together, what would you say to giving this organisation another chance?" Phil smiles encouragingly, his eyes twinkling.

I sigh exasperatedly. This man just doesn't give in, does he? "Why? Why should I bother? I might very occasionally enjoy my job, but that's on the rare occasion I do something worthwhile, like save Barton from a solo mission when he's too busy being angsty, or when I beat Stark in an argument, or you bring me a coffee when I don't have the time to get one myself, little things like that."

He huffs. "Little things like saving the world?"

I can't help but smirk and raise an eyebrow. "You say that like I actually manage it single handedly. I'm telling you, if some supervillain burst in here right now, my little handgun isn't going to do much. I'd have to resort to using the 'mom' voice as it has been so lovingly dubbed and I'd treat them to a whole hands on hips, cold emotionless face lecture on the morals of the world that would have them on their knees with their ears bleeding within minutes."

Phil grins, chuckling a little and smiling mischievously. "See? Saving the world one terrifying lecture at a time. I tell the Avengers *_cough_* Stark *_cough_* that every victory is a team effort all the time, and we both know that it isn't soldiers on the battlefield who win a war. Besides, being out on the plane has given me a taste for fieldwork again, would you like to join me?"

"On your monster of a plane? Thanks, but no thanks. Being in close quarters with Agent Ward will lead to me seriously injuring him, probably in less than a week. I cannot put up with that kind of macho bullshit."

"No, of course not on the plane." Phil raises his eyes to the ceiling, "Mei would just go into robot mode full time, FitzSimmons would salivate over your clearance level, Sky wouldn't understand what the fuss was about and Ward would most likely go out of his way to annoy you. Anyway, I'd have to give up my office for you, and I like my office. No, I'm talking you and me, just like in the beginning before we both got shoved on the management track."

"Just like old times?" I say with all of the considerable sarcasm I have at my command.

"Just like old times." Phil confirms. "You and me out in the field, against the world, just once every couple of months away from the office, shooting targets, blowing stuff up and giving Strike Team Delta a run for their money."

I can't help but smile at him indulgently. "You always were overdramatic."

He snorts. "Says you, Miss 'I'm Maria goddamn Hill'." Phil gracefully jumps to his feet and snags my wine bottle off the side, before pouring us both a good measure of the intoxicating red liquid. I give him a look that tells him exactly how far he's pushing it but after so many years I think my glares are losing their effect on him, because he doesn't even glance up. Damn. I'm going to have to work on that.

He raises his glass in a toast. "To Maria Hill, the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, finally getting the breaks that she deserves."

I sigh dramatically, but give in. If I have to admit defeat, I will do it gracefully. "To flipping Phil Coulson, the man who always gets what he wants in the end." Well, semi-gracefully at least.

We clink glasses and polish off our drinks.

I suddenly realise the magnitude of the rampage I just went on. "This is going to be so embarrassing." I groan.

Phil pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. "You'll be fine, Maria."

"No but Phil, I lost my temper with the Avengers, I _hissed_ at agents in the hallway and I tasered _Fury_! If I don't wind up dead or fired I'm never going to live this down! No-one is going to show me any respect anymore, I acted like some junior agent suffering with PTSD!" Years and years of training and stressful situations are all that's stopping me from hyperventilating right now.

"Maria! Chill out, take deep breaths and relax. Now listen to me. You. Will. Be. Fine. If anything, everyone will respect you more because now they know what'll happen to them if they ever make you lose your temper, and Fury needs you too much to kill you off. We wouldn't have gone through all this hoo-ha if you were that replaceable. And besides, everyone forgave me when they thought I was _dead_, so I'm sure they'll forgive you for only losing your temper."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, I'm back in business mode. "Give me my tablet Phil."

He smirks, knowing full well that he's won, and pulls my tablet out from somewhere in the depths of his suit, not even bothering to ask how I knew he had it on him. I love my tablet. I especially love the fact that it isn't a StarkPad, and because it's better Tony is forever trying to get his hands on it. I begin to type rapidly, my hands flying over the keyboard as little more than a blur.

Phil only holds his peace for a few seconds. "What are you doing?" he asks, attempting to peer over the raised screen in font of him.

"Making myself a list of how I'm going to fix everything tomorrow whilst I still technically don't work here." I say without looking up from my screen.

"You gonna tell me your plan then?" Phil asks. "I could help out you know."

"All right, okay, just let me finish it off…okay, so roughly this is the plan for tomorrow. 1. Apologise to Phil for snapping at him." I look up and smile sheepishly at my partner. "Sorry Phil."

"Apology accepted." He smiles warmly at me, his eyes twinkling in the most familiar way.

My face turns business like again and I stare back down at my list. "2. Go to Stark tower and apologise to the Avengers, especially Steve because he doesn't like it when people swear, and Pepper because she's just a civilian and I probably scared the shit out of her, blowing up with no warning like that. 3. Deflect any and all concerned looks from Natasha and snarky comments from Stark. 4. Actually apologise to…" I shiver reluctantly, but manage to spit out "…Barton, for…slapping him and yelling at him when it was _mostly_ uncalled for. Then yell at him and tase him for being a dramatic asshole and cutting my feed to the Director's office. Now I'm not going to get away with having cameras in there anymore, the bastard. Always ruining my damnable plans." Phil gives me a stern look and I drop off the I-hate-Clint-Barton train of thought. "Anyway. 5. Go down to Training Room C and destroy a couple of training dummies, I haven't practiced in far too long and it'll help me take out any remaining stress and anger, especially after just dealing with the Avengers. 6. Wait till 9 o' clock when most of the Internal Security Operatives are in work and threaten them with paperwork and the prejudiced with-holding of their coffee supplies if any embarrassing videos of me losing my temper start to make their way around S.H.I.E.L.D. And finally 7. March to the Director's office, hunt down my resignation letter, tear it into tiny little pieces, burn the pieces and put the ashes into Fury's coffee because I'm a vindictive little bitch like that. Then I'll wait till he shows up and inform him that I am _taking_ my job back and that there _will_ be some changes to my schedule."

Phil blinks twice. I hope it's in awe. It had better be in awe. My plans are fabulous. "Oh, okay. Are you sure demanding things from Fury is the best idea? We know he doesn't like demands."

I snort good-naturedly. "It's my job to argue with him. Literally, it says that in my contract, that 'the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D must be ready and willing at all times to state contrary opinions to those of the Director in order to provide contrasting views', and since me yelling at him will most likely contrast with his view that no-one is allowed to yell at him and live, I'll be doing my job, hence I'll have my job back."

Phil stares at me in dead silence for a few seconds. Then he whistles. "No wonder you win every argument."

I grin vampirically. "That I do. Now get out of my rooms Coulson, and at least do me the courtesy of pretending you don't have a secret entrance through my wardrobe from your quarters to mine."

Phil only laughs as he hauls himself to his feet, looking over his shoulder as he leaves (through the front door) and says "Don't forget to assign us two some good missions for our trips down to the field!"

"Oh good god the enemy aren't going to know what hit them." I laugh. "I look forward to it. Once every three months should be good, right?"

Phil reaches the door to my quarters and pulls the door open. He spins around and smiles crazily even as he strolls out backwards into the corridor. "It's nice to have you back Maria!"

"Don't tell anyone Phil, I want to leave everyone in suspense and not a little terror. Now shoo, I have evil, evil plots to devise in order to terrorise S.H.I.E.L.D agents and the Avengers as a whole. I might even have time to get started on the X-men. Wow, free time, that's something I've not had in a hell of a while."

"It's nice to see you being happy again!" he calls.

"What?" I yell back, pretending to be offended, "How dare you! I'm never happy, I'm only ever marginally less pissed off!"

I hear Phil chuckle. "Goodnight Maria." He waves as he closes my front door.

"Night Phil." I call back.

That night, I went to bed feeling very satisfied with myself. It looks like even though I lost my temper, explosion style, tomorrow is going to bring a lot of improvements to my hectic schedule. If I can fix the gigantic mess I've made, things will surely start to look up. I'm a dangerous ex-assassin armed with paperwork, a taser, a gun and a plan, I'm a determined woman on a mission and no-one is going to stand in my way.

Needless to say, by the end of the next day, I had my job back.

**_Thank you for reading and please, please review for me!_**

**_Wow, this was 27 word pages long, that was kind of longer than I was expecting. Oh well._**

**_Au revoir mes petits amis!_**


	2. Those Awkward Apologies

**_Okay, so I got some really adorable reviews for the first part of this fic, and even though it was supposed to be a (short!) one-shot, I enjoyed writing it so much I think it's going to continue._**

**_This will be Maria carrying out her evil scheme to get her job back. Just a reminder of a basic version of the fabulous plan:_**

**_1\. Apologise to Coulson (_**_complete__**)**_

**_2\. Go to Stark tower and apologise to the Avengers._**

**_3\. Deflect any and all concerned looks from Natasha and snarky comments from Stark. _**

**_4\. Actually apologise to Barton, for slapping him and yelling at him when it was mostly uncalled for. Then yell at him and tase him for being a dramatic asshole and cutting the feed to the Director's office. _**

**_5\. Go down to Training Room C and destroy a couple of training dummies. _**

**_6\. Wait till most of the Internal Security Operatives are in work and threaten them into stopping any embarrassing videos circulating S.H.I.E.L.D._**

**_7\. March to the Director's office, hunt down the resignation letter, tear it into tiny little pieces and burn the pieces. Then wait till Fury shows up and inform him that I _****am****_ taking my job back and that there _****will****_ be some changes to my schedule._**

**_I'd also like to eternally thank whatever gods there might be out there for my favourite beta ever, run-robin-run. Her stories are legendary, her wit is as sharp as a freaking razor, and she'll stay up with me until 4am discussing whether it's feasible for Tony to build Bucky an arm that coverts into a rocket launcher..._****_yeah that totally didn't happen_****_...So please, go read her stories, I think she's only got one up at the moment but it'll break your heart, it's the saddest and cutest thing. _****_Also help me bully her into writing a follow on but ssh don't tell._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be canon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!_**

**_Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, French_**

Waking up and going to the cafeteria for my morning coffee has never felt so good. Seriously, I don't think the junior agents have ever scuttled out of my way so fast in my entire time at S.H.I.E.L.D, which is saying something considering who I am and what I do to those that upset me on a daily basis. I didn't even have to wait in line, I simply walked into the cafeteria and the sea of meandering agents parted before me as I strode to the front of the queue, picked up my coffee from a cafeteria girl who was quite literally quaking in her boots and then stalked out again. Their terrified shaking and gulping as they scrambled out of my way was extremely good for my ego.

Which really needs inflating, considering the beating I'm sure it's about to get at the hands of the Avengers.

Sighing, I raise my hand and place it on the scanner at the entrance to the elevator for Avengers Tower. Why I thought this was a good idea last night I have no idea, but I asked the Avengers to put off their busy schedules to meet with me so I have to at least show up. At least, that's what I'm telling myself, otherwise I'm sure I would've run off screaming like a hysterical banshee (or Coulson when he finds a spider in the shower) by now.

"Welcome Agent Hill. Or perhaps you would prefer Miss Hill?" Jarvis' British voice rings out from the ceiling. Thankfully, I've heard it enough times not to jump, never mind the fact that disembodied voices around the heli-carrier is pretty much the norm with so many spies that have penchants for sneaking up on people around. Someone made it one of the initiation games for the recruits to sneak up on me and make me jump, and then get away _alive_…no-one has managed it yet. No-one.

"Agent Hill will suffice Jarvis." My hands clench into fists and I have to force them to relax, thinking of how much I want that title back. Agent is _my_ title, my life's work you could say, it's a damn large part of what defines me. And I'm feeling its current absence like the loss of a particularly important limb. "At least I hope so."

"Thank you Agent Hill." Stark's precious AI replies calmly, "And may I wish you luck with your upcoming meeting?"

"Thanks Jarvis." I respond, my voice carefully measured to keep out any sound of nerves. Stepping into the elevator, I have a rather worrying thought as I rise through the tower. "…If they try to attack me, do you have protocols to stop them?" I know it's a slightly (okay very) irrational fear that the Avengers, who are a serious force for good, will attack me over losing my temper, but the fear is still there.

"If by 'them' you mean the team known as the Avengers then yes, Agent Hill, I do."

"Even if it's Stark doing the attacking?"

"Especially then." Jarvis quips, a hint of pride at his own wit colouring his robotic voice.

A smirk finds its way onto my lips; I don't think there's a person on this planet that doesn't find Jarvis' unexpected sarcasm amusing. But it fades even more quickly than usual as I steel myself to actually _apologise_ to the _Avengers_ of all people. Well, I say people. A frozen supersolider from WWII, a Norse God from another Realm, an egomaniacal billionaire in a metal suit, a world class ex-Russian assassin, a man with extreme anger issues _and_ the Hulk, don't really count as people per se. At least, not to most people, but then again who am I to judge normalcy?

But, however much I try to make fun of them doesn't change the fact that they are a down right terrifying group of people that I'm preparing to grovel before. To be honest, they could probably decide to execute me on a whim and the only downsides for them would be a little extra paperwork and a pissed off Agent Coulson. Actually, a pissed off Agent Coulson is something I'm not sure I would even wish on my worst enemy… except perhaps paperwork itself.

The elevator slows to a stop and pulling myself from my nervous rambling thoughts I take a deep breath and straighten my spine as the doors open, my face assembling into its usual imperious expression.

I stride purposefully into the main Avengers living room, doing my best to hide any and all nerves with false bravado. '_I'm Maria goddamn Hill'_, I think to myself, '_I can do this_.' "Avengers." I greet them, eyes scanning the room.

Barton hangs upside down from a sofa, blond hair brushing the floor, and Natasha is sat next to him with her usual poise and grace. Flickers of slight surprise flash through both their eyes, which I can only detect after working with them for over 8 years, before Barton sighs and reluctantly hands fifteen what-looks-like-Swiss-Francs to his partner, who winks at me before it disappears to somewhere on her person. Some things never change. Steve looks up from his famously stunning sketchpad, a smile so pleased to see me appearing on his face that it's almost painful to look at, it's so freaking _nice_, and Bruce pulls his head out of his formulas long enough to look at me like an ostrich pulling its head from the sand. My arrival cut Thor off in the middle of him booming "NO MEASLY GREEN SHELL SHALL DEFEAT THE SON OF ODIN!", so I assume Stark was teaching him about the wonders of Mario Kart before they both trudge a little sheepishly into the main room. I wonder how many games of Mario Kart it'll take before the Avengers collapse into a full-out internal war. It's strange to be hoping that I will actually be around to see it, although I'm sure dealing with the fallout will be an absolute _nightmare_.

Hopefully I can just delegate it to Coulson, then maybe he'll actually regret helping to reinstate me into my position as his technical boss in the S.H.I.E.L.D hierarchy. The evil part of me that is not busy frantically analyzing the Avengers is cackling simply at the thought of the look on Phil's face.

The slightly uncomfortable growing silence is broken when Pepper , bless her, hurries into the room looking very stressed out. "Tony," she orders, her gaze zeroing in on her boss/boyfriend with laser precision. I can always appreciate laser precision in a fellow woman, even it's not with a real laser. "I really need you to- Maria!" she exclaims as she notices me stood slightly awkwardly near the entrance of the room, not really sure how to proceed. "Come in, come in! How are you? Are you okay? Do you want a drink?"

"Good, yes, and no, thank you Pepper. Hopefully I shouldn't be here for too long, I don't want to be in your hair."

"Nonsense, you're always welcome here." Pepper smiles warmly, looking like she wants to give me a friendly hug but knowing better. She was there the last time I drop-kicked a person out of a quinjet for hugging me without express and explicit permission. Just a warning.

Tony wanders over, slinging an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. "Wow slow down there Pep, we don't want _everyone_ having access to my tower. Especially evil ex-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D who come bearing paperwork."

"She'll come bearing your death warrant the way this week is going if you're not careful Stark." Barton warns from the couch, only half joking.

I smile sweetly at Stark, far too sweetly to be sincere, just to watch him flinch. Not the way to go about apologising, but I can't resist, it's a deeply ingrained habit.

"So Maria, why are you here? Not with Tony's actual death warrant I hope." Steve smiles blindingly from behind his sketchbook, patriotism radiating from every pore on his golden skin. He's so damn perfect sometimes I want to vomit.

"Well…" I begin, shooting a steely glare at a concerned-looking Natasha. Looks like steps 2 and 3 will have to be carried out simultaneously. Dammit you insufferable Russian red-head, stop making swallowing my huge amount of pride harder than it already is. "I want to, that is, it is the convention in normal society to apologise for being socially inadequate in terms of relations and communications in the workplace, especially taking out the result of the frustration this may have resulted in on uninvolved parties verbally in an extreme and profanity-laden manner. Therefore…um…I'm sorry?"

"It's fine." Bruce says, a small smile playing at his lips.

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah, not really. I lost my temper and it was inexcusable. It wasn't your fault-"

"Yes it was." Steve asserts. "We were the ones fighting and ignoring you."

"I'm used to that, don't worry. I still shouldn't-"

"Aye, 'tis fine Lady Hill. Lady Widow has already explained the reasons behind your anger." Thor, unusually not shouting his head off, and also looking quite contrite pipes up, his goldilocks blond hair swinging about his shoulders.

I whip round, eyes slitted in Natasha's direction. She simply shrugs. "What? Female solidarity. I'm doing you a favour, it's obvious you hate apologising and would much rather be on your way to bust Fury's balls."

Stark's eyes light up. "Ooh, really? Can we watch, I'll make popcorn!"

"Tony." Pepper warns, lightly elbowing him in the side, but it doesn't stop him dancing around and cackling to himself. Obviously he enjoys the thought that Fury is going to get what's coming to him. He's definitely not the only one judging by the secretly pleased looks on the faces of the other Avengers. Fury's a great leader, not a good man. He goes for inspiring fear in the superheroes, knowing he'll never get loyalty, which is usually a damn good idea, but if a non-lethal, very scary threat is coming his way, and will affect him alone (à la moi), well, none of them are going to stop me.

"I'm supposed to be giving a heartfelt apology here!" I snap, frustrated. These people are so damn good, can't they let anyone of us fallible normal people just apologise?

"You don't need to." Barton pipes up from his still upside down position on the sofa. "We understand. We all nearly kill each other at least once a week, and you lasted nearly six months without snapping. Which reminds me Stark…" Clint makes a 'gimme' gesture and the billionaire sighs, pulling out his wallet and tossing the archer twenty dollars. "Thank you!"

"Well I'm sorry for swearing, Steve," I say rapidly, just like a child, hopefully too fast to be interrupted again, "and Pepper I'm sorry for going all out angry assassin on you because you're a civvie and that's unacceptable."

"How much did that apology hurt your pride Hill?" Stark teases mercilessly from behind Pepper.

"Not as much as it'll hurt when I've painted all of your suits, hero or otherwise, with the words 'Hill's Bitch'. And then turned Jarvis female. And shaved off your goatee in your sleep."

"So…" Stark smirks, "that apology hurt a lot then, if you'd have to carry out all those threats just to get me to hurt the same as you do."

I only glare at him until his smile fades and he looks away. Not my best moment, but hey, I'm still stressy, I can have the occasional lax day. Perhaps scaring everyone, even superheroes, with my glares alone can be added to my list of 'superpowers', which also includes my mastery of paperwork and my ability to drink enough coffee to kill twenty men in one sitting.

I quickly grab my tablet and tick off steps 2 and 3 from my plan. No sense not being efficient, it _is_ what brings so many supervillains down. World domination might not be in my plans, for today at least, but (re)conquering S.H.I.E.L.D is. Surely that should class as at least slightly villainous.

"What did you just do?" Natasha asks suspiciously, but from the minute twinkle in her green eyes she knows what a perfect opportunity she is handing me.

"Signed Stark's death warrant." I reply, no hint of a lie to be found anywhere on my person. The man behind the Iron Man suit visibly gulps. I turn to Barton, who is still, infuriatingly, upside down. "Barton, walk with me. Now."

He sighs, rolls his blue eyes as if _I'm_ the most annoying person in the world, and then rolls, heels over head, until he is stood up, before turning to face me with a bow and a raised eyebrow.

I link my arm through his and, almost pulling him off his feet, drag him into the elevator. As the doors close, and Barton rubs his head and pouts from where I 'accidentally' let his head ram into the wall, the last things I hear from the Avengers is a nervous sounding Stark asking "Was that really my death warrant?", and, slightly more surprisingly, Bruce muttering "Ten bucks says Barton doesn't come back alive,", which sends Natasha cackling.

"So Maria," asks Barton, wiggling his eyebrows in a faux suggestive manner, "why did you want to see me, _alone_?"

Oh god, now is the time to really swallow my pride. This hurts more than apologising to the Avengers as a whole, because, while I might not like Stark, or be particularly positively inclined towards the others, I don't have the ongoing rivalry/hatred/friendship with them that I do with Hawkeye. We very, very rarely say anything remotely nice to each other, and now, I need to apologise to the bastard? Uh, no thanks.

"I need to say _sorry_ to you for…slapping you and yelling at you when it was _mostly_ uncalled for." I manage to force out through my teeth.

Barton blinks in slight surprise. "Well, I have to say, I wasn't expecting that. But again, apology accepted, if I'd know what a bad day you were having yesterday I _probably_ wouldn't have been such a little shit about my paperwork. Probably."

"Good," I grin, "glad to get that out of the way. Now, how _dare_ you cut my camera feed to the Director's office you over-dramatic asshole?! Now I'm not going to get away with having cameras in there anymore, you bastard, you're _always_ ruining my damnable plans." As the lift comes to a halt and I finish my rant, I whip out my taser and fire the prongs into Barton's leg, letting him have a full blast of electricity. And again. And again. Okay, so maybe I'm taking revenge for a whole lot of past crimes against me, but whatever, he'll live.

Sashaying past a lobby of gawping Stark Industries employees, I retract my taser and, leaving Barton still juddering in the elevator, I take my leave. Straddling my favourite motorcycle, I take out my tablet, tick off step 4, put it away and with a rev of my engines I head back to the New York ground base. And damn am I on a role today.

(**I*I**)

Punch, kick, punch, duck, twist, kick, jump, punch, step back, leap in, kick, roll, swivel, drop, and JUMP SKY HIGH IN THE AIR when an unholy noise straight from hell rings out piercingly loud through the training hall.

I clutch at my chest, heart pounding both from the intensity of my dramatic fight (against a punching bag) and from the pure shock caused by the loudest alarm on the planet. I set it because I really need to be in the Monitoring room between the shifts of the Internal Security Operatives for maximum intimidation factor, and I really don't want to be late. The next change over will mean the arrival of the Operatives who were watching the cameras yesterday when I had my little breakdown (well, I say little…), and the pure fear of what I will do to them if they release that footage will wear off early into their first shift today, and so I'm thinking they'll need a _reminder_ of what I do to people that cross me.

As you may have gathered, no-one crosses me.

I shower the results of my most intense workout in a good long while off my skin at military speed, though definitely not at military temperature, dry my hair and wrap it up into a ponytail. Climbing back into my catsuit I carefully hook my tablet back onto my belt, pull on my shoes and trek back across Training Hall C, dodging an overenthusiastic throwing star as I go.

Marching down the hallway is like I'm Moses parting the Red Sea, if the Red Sea was a crowd of terrified S.H.I.E.L.D agents actually trampling each other and throwing themselves through side doors just to get out of my way. Yeah okay so maybe I'm glaring with enough heat to set metal alight and my hands are resting on the butts of my handguns, but I can't resist, it's just too tempting. Who ever said power corrupts was _damn_ right, it's exhilarating.

I arrive at the Monitoring room unnoticed, slipping through the shadows behind the huge computer bank and watching the 12 current ISO's (Internal Security Operatives) packing up to leave. I count the amount of Styrofoam coffee cups (37) and grin. They'll never survive a single shift without coffee, my planned threats are panning out perfectly.

Still, I sneak out my tablet and, hiding any light it might produce, make a note to increase the spatial awareness of all my ISOs on all S.H.I.E.L.D bases worldwide. If I were here with murderous intentions I could've killed all 12 of them by now without even trying. Maybe some surprise 'kidnappings' every once in a while will help them out.

They all file out and, like clockwork, their replacements file in. Nearly all of them are checking the shadows shiftily, showing every sign of suspicious nerves, and I'm glad for my years of training out in the field that keep me perfectly hidden. They sit at their desks in silence for a few minutes, eyes darting around the room and small beads of sweat rolling down some foreheads. It's nice to know they remember me from what happened last time they leaked some footage of me on a mission 'seducing' a target.

I say 'seducing', but to be honest I lost it half-way through the whole fluttering-eyelashes and coy smiles act and started laughing nearly hysterically, so I was forced to back out of the mission and let someone else step in. To be fair though, the guy was such an arsehole that his pickup line was 'Do you work on a chicken farm? 'Cuz you sure know how to raise a cock!', so he should have probably been glad he left that encounter with any cock at all.

Finally, one of the ISOs speaks, nerves making her voice audibly quiver. "Do you think…can we…thatfootageisgoldandireallythinkweshouldreleaseit."

Another one stands up, obviously the ringleader of the group. Agent Malek I do believe from my prior research. Tall and fair with dark eyes and thin wire glasses perched on his nose, I know he's smart enough to be working in Intelligence but got transferred down here as punishment for disrespect to his superiors. "C'mon guys, let's do it. This footage is good enough to top the unofficial S.H.I.E.L.D top ten videos of all time, it might even beat the one of Coulson coming back from the dead! Don't you agree it's worth the risk, I mean really, what's Hill gonna do?"

"An excellent question Agent Malek, one I will be happy to answer." I glide out of the shadows and relish the way all of the agents jump, especially the formerly confident ringleader, and watch as they all turn _very_ pale _very_ rapidly as their eyes widen in shock and not a little fear. Brilliant, this should be easier than I had planned.

"A-Agent Hill." Malek stutters out, although he doesn't back away into the trembling crowd of his peers, which shows impressive bravery given the circumstances. Perhaps foolhardiness, but bravery too.

"So, it's nice to hear none of _that_ footage has been released yet, isn't it ladies and gentlemen?" I sweep around the main desk area, fingers trailing carelessly over stacks of paperwork and keyboards alike, letting them all sweat before I turn my most piercing gaze back onto them. "Shall we discuss what exactly might happen if, say, any footage embarrassing to myself happens to begin to circulate the backstreets of S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"I have a feeling that you're going to tell us anyway." Malek murmurs, more resigned than cocky, and I feel a swell of pride for the calibre of agents S.H.I.E.L.D churns out on a regular basis. Maybe, after this little soirée is over, I'll find some subtle way to have him reinstated in Intelligence, because he definitely has the balls for it.

"Is that the same feeling that told you to question what I could _really_ do to you all? Because so far, that feeling hasn't done you any favours." I snap authoritatively. "Now, is that footage going anywhere but into the hole of no return?"

"Yes ma'am." One agent trembles in a thick french accent. I send her a deadly look. "I mean no ma'am."

"Good." I smirk slightly, pleased with myself. "Because if it does become a smash hit, you will all be held personally responsible. And then, well…" I survey the room with one last sharp look, "the prejudiced withholding of your coffee supplies and several mountains worth of paperwork would be a punishment you would pray for."

"Understood." Malek nods once, looking resigned. "Jael, go to your computer and delete the footage. And make sure you do it properly."

I stand as imposingly as I can behind a young Mexican woman as with shaking hands she deletes any trace of the footage of my temper tantrum from S.H.I.E.L.D databases.

"Thank you." I say to the crowd of ISO's once the deed is complete, "And please, to save me the bother, next time you think of doing anything like this, especially involving me? Just don't."

With my point made I march out of the room, allowing myself a snort of laughter once I reach a deserted stretch of corridor. Good lord their faces, it's a good job they've all seen me kick some serious ass at their respective times at S.H.I.E.L.D monitoring the cameras or they would've called out my act immediately for the bullshit it was.

Still, I'm glad that that's out of the way, because with S.H.I.E.L.D's rumour mill this tale will be nothing more than another crazy myth about me that plagues any senior agent around here by tomorrow. By next week, no-one will believe a word of it and what happens when I lose my temper will be lost to legend.

A legend huh? Just the way I like to be thought of.

Bringing out my tablet for hopefully the penultimate time for this particular plan, I tick off stage 6 and reread step 7 with apprehension. This all suddenly seems like a really stupid idea, after how rudely I treated Fury yesterday night; he doesn't forgive, and he doesn't forget. And I'm planning to march into his office and demand things from him? Most would consider me completely suicidal for what I'm about to attempt.

Marching up to Fury's office I stare at the door nervously, hoping and praying to a god I don't believe in that The Spy himself isn't in there. But of course, since Barton cut my camera feeds, the bastard, I can't tell if Fury is in his office since the door is sound proof and there's no keyhole to peek through. The upsides to working with the most paranoid people on the planet are plenty, especially when they regularly save everyone's lives, but when you want to sneak around without being noticed it's a great big pain in the ass. The only thing for it is to barge right in, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

I have a personal theory about luck, something that my first Strategy Teacher at the S.H.I.E.L.D academy would chant at us over and over. 'Luck is for fools, if you need luck you haven't planned your course of action properly and you deserve whatever grisly fate is coming to you.' What a wonderful man. He would have a heart attack if he could see what I'm about to do.

I knock on the door and shove it open…only to breathe a _giant_ sigh of relief. The room's empty of angry one-eyed S.H.I.E.L.D Directors; good, I can carry out most of my remaining scheme in peace.

I slide behind his desk, perching my ass neatly on the edge of his huge leather chair (seriously, the man has an obsession with leather, he's going to end up killing off the world's cow population if he doesn't reign it in soon), and start sifting through the small amount of paperwork on his desk (all of which had already been filled out and sorted by me…just saying).

The paperwork I find is useless. Strike Team Delta being pissy about some potential mission, been there seen that, Coulson broke his plane again, well it's not like that was unexpected, Latveria transfer of monarchy papers…c'mon, where is it? Resignation paper, resignation paper…goddamn it, it's not in the draws, it's not loose on the desk or in a file, it's not even under the desk or in the false bottom to the third draw down (who says the old ones aren't the best?), which means that it's either already been processed and I've lost my job already, or, perhaps even worse, Fury has it on his person.

"Looking for this?" asks an amused-but-trying-not-to-be voice from the doorway.

My head snaps up from where I was rootling around on the floor and I automatically scan the figure that I didn't even hear coming that's silhouetted in the doorway. Bald head: check. Leather coat: check. Eye patch: check. Steaming cup of coffee: check. My resignation letter held between two fingers like it's the scum of the earth: double check. Yep, it's Director Fury all right.

Well, this is awkward.

Instead of jumping to my feet like I was caught doing something I shouldn't have been, I simply straighten up in his chair and look him coolly in the eyes. You can get away with doing so many forbidden things simply by pretending that you have every right to be doing so. "Director Fury." I smile calmly, leaving off the cliché 'We meet again'. Just. Can't say I wasn't sorely tempted but now if ever is the time to be professional.

"Hill." He responds, completely blasé and giving absolutely nothing away as he stares down at me, taking a sip of his coffee as if nothing is wrong in the world. He is The Spy after all. "Get the _fuck_ out of my chair."

"Yes sir." I jump up as gracefully as I can and we rotate around the desk until he is sat in his leather throne and I am stood before his desk, spine straight and head held high like a good little soldier.

He glares at me for a good long while before sighing. "What the hell makes you think you have any right to go rifling through my papers, I could have you court-martialled so fast your head wouldn't stop spinning." Fury growls, but there is no malice in his words. He seems…pleased is not the word, gratified perhaps, that he was right that I would return to my job. I wonder for a split second how much money he has placed on me returning to Deputy Director in the S.H.I.E.L.D betting pool, before dismissing the thought. A lot, obviously, given the smug tilt of his head and the jaunty lift of his jaw. I hate that I've been working for him long enough to notice these tiny indicators of his mood, it's _truly_ sad.

"As a technicality, I'd be executed well before anyone ever got around to court-martialling me, considering that I officially don't work here anymore, making me a civilian at best and a criminal at worst. Sir."

Fury adeptly ignores the sarcasm littering my words and gives me a hard stare that brooks no nonsense as he flattens my now-crumpled resignation letter on the desk in front of him. "What do you want Hill. I can't have you rifling through my desk and you know it."

"Just this." I reach over his desk and snatch up that damned letter, glaring at it with enough fire to set it alight once it is back in my possession, before proceeding to rip it into smaller and smaller and smaller pieces until they begin to scatter like confetti under my nails. Then, with a vindictive smile worthy of the bitch that I am, I dump the remains of my resignation letter into Fury's coffee and watch it slowly turn into a sodden, pulpy mush.

Fury, despite his usually permanent bad temper, only raises an eyebrow. "Done?"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm taking my job back. I'd apologise for losing my temper, except that my explosion was extremely necessary to blow off some steam, and I'm certainly _not_ sorry. I've discussed the situation with / threatened everyone within an inch of their life who was directly affected by the incident, and you're the only one left, so that's sorted."

Fury runs his tongue over his teeth as if he's only considering what I'm saying to disguise the tiny smile that has blossomed on his lips. "Welcome back Deputy Director Hill."

"And there's going to be some changes to my schedule." I declare, crossing my arms and cocking my hip. "For one, I'm having an off day once every three months with Coulson out in the field on a mission of my choosing." I assert sternly, face set in a no-nonsense mask even though I'm struggling not to laugh at Fury's disgruntled expression regarding what I just did to his coffee. He keeps shooting the occasional horrified glances at the pulpy mess in his mug; he looks more upset than he did when the world was ending two Tuesdays ago.

"Pending world-ending situations that need your direct attention, permission granted. Anything else?"

"Yeah, off-load another 3am nuclear crisis and a Council meeting just past 5am ever again and I'll be forced to enact an unspeakably evil revenge the likes of which you have never suffered before." Fury smirks slightly, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands, and I narrow my eyes in warning. "I'm serious, I'll have Phil and Natasha and maybe even Barton help me out with it as well. Kapeesh?"

"Don't threaten me Agent Hill. And don't argue with me either. I am your superior once again and I don't think kindly of that kind of behaviour." Fury's smirk is gone, wiped off his face, and his single eye is hard and cold and forbearing. It is the Fury glare, a glare that sends agents young and old rushing to the bathroom or fainting on the floor, the glare that can, without a single word being spoken, shut up all of the Avengers, including Stark, which I have to admit is a feat in itself. Thor has compared it to the Allfather's glare, only scarier.

I blink, but don't flinch. I force a tiny, unaffected smile onto my face, just lifting one corner of my mouth ever so slightly to give the appearance of being unaffected by his infamous glare, despite the fact I seriously want to fidgit and look away. Even if Director Fury hates your guts, he is always, grudgingly, impressed by those strong enough to stand against him. And since that's in my job description…

"Actually sir, whilst I may not technically be allowed to threaten you, I am perfectly within my rights as your Deputy Director to argue with you however much I please to. It's my job to argue with you. Literally, it says in my contract that 'the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D must be ready and willing at all times to state contrary opinions to those of the Director in order to provide contrasting views', and since me arguing with you most likely contrasts with your view that no-one is allowed to argue with you and live, I'm simply doing my job, hence I have my job again and am already back in full swing."

He stares at me for what must be a full minute, the seconds ticking by with agonising slowness under the heat of his glare. I stare back, slightly trembling hands clasped behind my back, repeating the same lines to myself over and over '_Even breathing, don't twitch, don't blink, don't look away, back straight, head high, even breathing, don't twitch, don't blink_…"

Fury sighs, not in defeat but in acceptance that nothing in our tumultuous relationship of harsh words and crossed swords will change, that I won't let him gain any advantage over me despite that little temper tantrum that exploded out of me yesterday.

"Don't you have work to be doing Agent Hill?" he grouches, finally turning off the glare.

I hold back a sigh of relief and give him a brisk nod. "Yes sir." Spinning towards the door, I pause mid-step at the sound of Fury awkwardly clearing his throat. I turn back around slowly, hands on hips and eyebrows raised. "Anything _else_ sir?"

Fury has a face like thunder and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the entire Nine Realms but here. "It's good to have you back…Maria."

I jolt in surprise, but then smile, pleased. "Thank you Director Fury. It's nice to be appreciated for a change."

"Now get the hell of my office Agent Hill. I expect all of yesterday's and today's paperwork turned in on time or there will be consequences. Severe consequences. I expect you to act like you're walking on eggshells for the next month, and I do not want any traumatized agents, assholes or otherwise, turning up terrified outside my office with your name on their lips."

Business as usual then. "Yes sir."

Needless to say, by the end of the next week, I was left wondering why I ever wanted my job back at all.

**_Thank you for reading and please, please review for me!_**

**_This was a little shorter than the last one, only 12 word pages, but I sincerely hope you enjoyed it just as much!_**

**_Au revoir mes petits amis!_**

**_Please review!_**


	3. Patriotism Can Feel A Lot Like Bruises

**_Hello wonderful people of the world! I come bearing another chapter after however many millennia ago the last one was posted!_**

**_I just thought I should mention the fact that in this weird fic-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-oneshot-but-got-expanded-upon-thingy, I'm ignoring Cap2 (not that it wasn't the best movie, because GIRL POWER!) but it just doesn't fit so… Oh, and not that it's relevant right now but imagine Thor2 kinda happened but everyone already knows Loki is still alive and kicking… And Coulson being alive is already widely known…obviously._**

**_Thanks to my beta, run-robin-run! Head over and check her out! I meant her writing! Sheesh..._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be canon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!_**

**_Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, French, military slang, vague mention of strangulation, vague mentions of child abuse._**

Do you know what I love? High heels. Coffee too, but right now I'm talking about heels. Are they impractical: absolutely. But it what other kind of shoes can you strut down a hallway in, knowing you could be on your way to grab a Starbucks or crush the patriarchy beneath your well-shod feet?

Click click motherfuckers.

I turn my attention back to the call I'm currently engaged on. "Yes, Professor, thank you for warning us. PR is already covering it up, and I'll get Director Fury to ring you back. Be warned, he'll be in a terrible mood." I listen in silence for a second, and then forcefully have to suppress an amused smile. "Yes, I do agree he's always in a terrible mood, but really, it's to be expected. Hill out."

"Deputy Director! The Avengers have been spotted!" A young female agent dashes up, snapping a sharp salute with perfect posture despite the fact she's probably run here from quite far away. The calibre of our agents never fails to impress me.

"Where exactly Agent Yousif? Report!" I demand quickly from her, numerous apocalyptic scenes running through my mind. I kind of desperately need to know their location after all, they've been AWOL for the last four weeks.

"They're…um…they're waiting for you on The Bridge." she stutters half hesitantly, obviously a little scared of my temper after my explosion last month.

And I'll admit, that makes me pissed. Those cocky little self-entitled shits. I draw myself up to my full height and take a deep breath. "Thank you Agent Yousif." I rap out sharply. "If you'll excuse me… Actually, can you do something for me?"

"Of course Deputy Director."

"Good. Go and secure me a debriefing room, I think I'm going to need somewhere a little more private than The Bridge to rip off the Avengers' heads." Agent Yousif nods, turns to stride off, and then does a double take, looking back at me with a confused look on her face. "Well? Go on then, comm me when you've done."

Yousif only sighs in a long suffering manner and rolls her eyes, before hurrying off to do what I asked. If she was any lower than the Level 7 clearance she is, she wouldn't have _dared_ roll her eyes at me. But as it is, she can keep her life. For a little while anyway.

I click my way through the halls, eyes calculating as I try my best to work out what the _hell_ caused the Avengers to pick up and leave without word to anyone, including _Pepper_, just as I've been doing for the last _four_ motherfucking weeks. They could've been dead, or kidnapped, or mind-controlled, or lost, or accidentally teleported to a hostile Realm (yeah, don't even ask, it's happened before). They could've been _anywhere_, doing _anything_.

Maybe it was Loki. He's out of Asgard's frankly appalling jail cells and is causing mischief again, for the supposedly all-powerful Allfather, Odin makes a shit father and an even worse enforcer of his stupid archaic laws. Seriously, when a S.H.I.E.L.D team representing Midguard went to Asgard the bastard tried to make me, as a women, wear a dress. Do you know how much dresses hinder kicking ass? It was ridiculous, though unfortunately due to diplomacy I couldn't tell him so. Or perhaps it was Red Skull, he came back with the last rise of Hydra in _Mongolia_ of all places, I'm sure he'd be interested in kidnapping 'Ze Avengerz'. Although it doesn't take four weeks for anyone with half a brain to take down that 'pathetic tomato' as he has been so lovingly dubbed, so it's probably not him. I can still hear Stark's ketchup jokes now.

I've been running over these thoughts all month, and all I've managed so far is to go round in circles. It's just not worth the effort.

"-and I don't give a single fuck if you thought you had the best reason in the entire goddamn world to go prancing around who-knows-where on your magical mystery tour-" Fury is screaming at them, I can hear it all the way down the hall. It doesn't sound pretty.

"Sir, with all due respect-"

"Don't you give me that bullshit Romanoff, if you had any respect for me or the goddamn organisation that has saved your ass more times than I can count, you would _not_ go running off with your new-found friends for a whole motherfucking month without word! All I needed was a 'Hi Fury, we're alive and taking a fucking vacation, #YOLO little picture of a fucking kitten'!"

"Pfft." Tony scoffs. "If we were sending you sarcastic messages there would've at least been a two-fingered salute in there somewhere."

"Tony, shut your mouth!" Steve reprimands much more sharply than usual, as if he's on the end of his rope. "What have we said about making bad situations worse with your smart mouth?"

I step out into The Bridge and carefully take stock of the situation. Knowing the Avengers, I'm very sure I'm going to find something I don't like. Barton and Romanoff are leaning on the wall across from a steaming mad Fury, looks of zen-like calm on their faces. Heaven knows they've gone AWOL often enough that the reprimands don't bother them anymore, but they could have at least have the decency to pretend to be a little bit worried. Stark is wandering around the room, leaning over agents' shoulders to peer at their monitors and blatantly paying no attention whatsoever, while Thor, Banner, Rogers and a stranger are sat around the show table, so called because no-one has ever had a conversation around that table that wasn't for the sole purpose of showing off to the S.H.I.E.L.D agents down below.

I fix my attention on the stranger, whose arm is suffering from a Captain America death grip. If he were a danger he'd be in the cells already, not on The Bridge from where he could probably sink the heli-carrier. At least, that's protocol, but since when have the Avengers ever followed protocol? I examine the strange man carefully, seeing if I can solidify the odd feeling of familiarity I feel towards him.

Straggly brown hair tied back from his face, haunted, slightly wild eyes that flick around the room but always stop to rest on the Captain as if looking for reassurance, obviously well-muscled and well-trained, probably an assassin from the restless, tightly wound way he is sitting…

Suddenly, the pieces click together in glorious, horrifying synchronisation. I grab my gun in slightly shaking hands (knowing it will be of little use) and point it at the **'**stranger's**'** head. "Put your hands in the air!" I yell, perhaps a little unnecessarily. It sinks in why all of the Intelligence workers look so uncomfortable sat in front of their computers, and why there are a suspicious number of high level field agents around, armed and ready.

The man raises his hands slowly, and the second I see his left hand poking out from his jacket, I know my deduction was right. Shining, plated metal, the bionic arm that has ended so many lives. "The Winter Soldier." I whisper.

"Hill, put the gun down." Barton murmurs, making stand down gestures with his hands.

Instead of doing as he says, I turn and wave the gun in his direction. "Oh don't you start. You were on your last warning _former_-Agent Barton, and you blew it. You have literally no influence here, actually I'm surprised Fury hasn't tossed you in the cells already. So shut your face, back off and sit your ass down at the table." Clint blinks, eyebrows drawn together, but does as I say. Even Stark struts over at the tone of my voice, obnoxiously choosing to sit _on_ the damn table, but still.

"Director," I say, turning to Fury, "permission to take over this debriefing. Professor Xavier wishes to speak with you."

"Xavier can shove it." Fury mutters childishly. I know he's been looking forward to ripping all of the Avengers a new one as much as I have, but Xavier needs help cleaning up the damage his X-men have caused across the country, _again. _Honestly, they seem to do more damage than the Avengers and the Fantastic Four put together, and they have the Thing and the Hulk! The last poker night between those two was not fun. Seriously, never, _ever_ again. The Senate passed a law to prevent it.

"Director. I know you hate his telepathic ass, but Xavier is on our side, rather fortunately for us. If you'd like, I'll get around to setting up a proper liaison between the mutants and S.H.I.E.L.D so neither of us constantly have to deal with them."

"See that you do that Hill." Fury grunts unhappily, stalking across the room towards the entrance I am still inhabiting with my gun raised. "Telepathic? More like tele-_pathetic_." he grumps, causing quite a few snorts of laughter that are quickly covered up among the S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Even some of our most hardened field agents are smothering grins. As Fury passes though my doorway, he leans in and quietly mutters "Make it a good one." to me before exiting with a last flick of his leather coat. I _almost_ smile.

My comm beeps. "Your debriefing room is ready Deputy Director, it's Room 7 on Level 1."

"Thank you Agent Yousif. Please continue with your day." I glare my way around the room. "Alright you stupid sons of bitches, as of right now, you're all under military arrest until we can get to the bottom of what has been going on here. I'm assuming you'll be coming quietly?" I raise an eyebrow threateningly and knock the safety of my gun.

Stark opens his mouth but Bruce gently touches the back of his hand in warning with a pointed look that coveys something I can't understand. Stark, albeit unhappily, closes his mouth. Oh the miracles. "We'll come quietly." Steve answers for all of them, handing each member of his team a warning look.

"Excellent." I don't put away my gun. "Everyone leave your weapons on the table."

I get a whole host of filthy looks from the Avengers, but one by one they obey. Bruce goes first, surprisingly pulling a covered syringe from his sock and laying it on the table. "It's for my anger." he admits, blushing, "but I thought it might count as a weapon so…" No-one points out that he himself is by far the most dangerous weapon here.

Steve smiles at Banner encouragingly and puts his famed shield on the table, followed by a knife from his shoe. Stark sighs overdramatically and drops his silver cuffs on the table. "And I hope your not expecting me to pull out the Arc Reactor." he mutters churlishly.

Attention turns to Thor, who carefully places Mjolnir on the table, followed by, very surprisingly, a flat brown disk from a string around his neck and a glowing green vial of liquid. "Do not touch those objects." he instructs. No other explanations are forthcoming.

Steve nudges the Winter Soldier, on whom my gun is still trained as well as the attention of every field agent in the room, who swallows nervously. "Agent Romanoff already confiscated my, uh…weaponry but I could disconnect my h-hand. Maybe. It'd really hurt though." he whispers the last sentence with a slight shudder and I feel a wave of pity. He looks just like another kid who's been through too much. That pity gets quickly eradicated on the grounds that he is perhaps the world's deadliest killer. The Avengers have all obviously gone soft for him, I can't afford to do so too.

"I vouch for him." Steve jumps in, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "He won't hurt anyone."

"I second that." Romanoff asserts in a cool voice.

"You both have prior associations with the Winter Soldier and are therefore biased. And who says I give a shit about your opinions anyway?" I turn back to the wide-eyed assassin. "You start attacking anyone and the first bullet goes through Captain Roger's skull, understood?"

The way Steve narrows his eyes and the soldier nods hastily shows me I'm right, they know each other. Well of course I'm right, we knew this was coming for a long time. I compiled the damn file for god's sake.

"All right then. Romanoff, Barton, weapons please." They scowl, unmoving. "You two are technically under arrest too, so just play along for god's sake. You're in deep enough trouble with the damned Council as it is."

With a role of his blue eyes Barton goes first, dropping his bow and quiver on the table, soon followed by Natasha who removes her Widow's Bites and her handguns with a filthy look.

"All of your weapons." I demand.

With twin mutinous looks the duo pull knives from their shoes, their thighs, the inside of their forearms, the outside of their upper arms and then they turn around so that the other can pull a knife from the middle of their backs. The knives piled up on the table and Stark whistles. "That is a hell of a lot of knives, you two planning to stock a kitchen or something?"

I tap my foot, unimpressed. "Stop wasting my time you two. I said all of them and I mean _all_ of them."

The Avengers all blink; surely they can't have anymore weapons? But I know better. The assassins' disdainful looks could burn through steel at this point, but they comply. Barton pulls a gun from his waistband and the ammo from his pockets, a set of lock picks from behind his shoulder blades, a tiny dagger from the sole of his shoe, a sheathed hunting knife from, I'm reasonably sure, his underwear, and another set of lock picks from under a fake skin patch on his elbow. Romanoff delivers a knife from her bra, lock picks from her hair, an array of electric disks from various places around her person, a taser from her hip and a pocket lipstick laser.

"Thank you, it wasn't that hard." The narrow-eyed glares and the clenched fists suggest it was. I'm 9000% sure they both have more weapons on them, but that will do for now. Knowing my luck someone will attack the heli-carrier while all the Avengers are unarmed and I'll never hear the end of it, so it's probably better that the human members of the team have some way to defend themselves.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do. Rogers, Thor, Banner, Stark, you four will be escorting the Winter Soldier to the interrogation room on Level 2 with Agents Imran, Desai, Petrovich and Woodford" I point out each of the agents in turn, who all nod their assent and walk up to join us on the platform, "to make sure you don't do another runner. Then, head to Room 7 on Level 1 for debriefing. Avengers, do _not_ try anything. Agents, you have full permission to use any and all necessary force. Romanoff, Barton, you're with me."

"Yes ma'am."

The two groups split our different ways, the ragtag group of superheroes and one mysterious assassin surrounded by the S.H.I.E.L.D agents who support a variety of very lethal-looking weapons heading in the opposite direction. Considering the ruckus between the four agents to be the two marching along behind the heroes, I am inclined to think that a large proportion of their attention will be focused on Captain Roger's ass, despite the fact that I know that between the three female and one male agent, the man is straight and one of the women is a lesbian. Apparently Roger's ass is irresistible to all.

"So," Barton pipes up from my left, "where are we going, Ice Queen?"

"To find the Cavalry." I reply bluntly, finally putting my handgun back on safety and stuffing it in its holster.

"Why do you need Agent Mei?" Romanoff queries slowly, her eyebrows drawing together in thought.

"Because only she has the code for Coulson's cell."

Both members of Strike Team Delta immediately stop walking and give me half confused, half horrified looks. "Come again?" Barton chokes out.

"You went AWOL, _a_-fucking-_gain_. You must've known there would be consequences, even if you are rather dim." Barton sputters in indignation. I raise a dangerous eyebrow. "Just because you know you're far too irreplaceable to fire, despite the fact that you just blew your last chance, doesn't mean other people won't have to suffer the fallout. Fury got blasted by the World Security Council. I got a great big stack of paperwork. Coulson got a 6-by-6 cell." Lethal looks encourage me to elaborate. "It was the Council's orders, they reckoned Coulson had gone too far when he looked the other way when you all scarpered, especially when he wouldn't tell us where you were. They knew Fury or I would just let him out on the sly, so they entrusted the task of keeping him in his cell to Agent Mei. Poor woman's being getting death stared all month, not that she gives a shit."

"Fucking Council." Barton growls. "I thought they'd just hand me a 3 month mission ban or something, not pin the blame on my goddamn fucking perfect Handler!"

"Clint." Natasha places a calming hand on her partner's shoulder, just stopping him from punching a hole in the wall. That's all she needs to say.

Barton takes deep, calming breaths, pointing an unwavering finger in my direction. "And you had nothing to do with sticking Coulson in a fucking cell?"

I cross my arms. "Believe me, I'm more unimpressed than you are. At least I wasn't the cause of it." Both assassins grimace slightly.

"Anyway," Natasha adds after a slight, angst-filled pause, "let's go find Agent Mei."

A spark of genius suddenly strikes me; maybe Stark left a tiny piece of his genius floating around and it landed on my head or something. "Hold on actually, I have an idea."

I whip my tablet out and slide open a few files. Instead of the usual neatly constructed voice note, I simply send one word out over the intercom. "Cavalry!"

A very, very faint "Don't call me that!" echoes in the distance. Found her.

Before rescuing Coulson, I need to have one last word with my most capable, rule-breaking, terrifying, mischievous, we-do-what-we-want agents/spies/assassins. I quickly put my tablet away and turn to face them, hands on hips. "You two do understand that you are in so much fucking trouble, from Fury and I especially." I get two sharp nods and slightly lowered eyes. For once I actually think that the remorse isn't all faked, which is a small miracle in itself. "And not because you ran off." Two pairs of surprised eyes meet mine. "If it bothered us, as in Management, _that_ much every time you run away, you'd be fired and/or dead by now. Believe me, we're used to it, we even have protocols for this very situation. But for god's sake next time take Coulson with you! For one, it's nice to know that the Avengers have at least one sensible adult making sure you don't all kill each other or blow up the planet or create wormholes to another dimension, and for another, I won't have to put my best friend and partner in a fucking cell! Understood?!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. Now get your sorry asses to the debriefing room, you know the way." I turn sharply on my heel to leave but am stopped by a calloused hand on my shoulder.

"Can we…can we see Coulson? Y'know, to apologise?" Barton pleads quietly.

"If he wants to see you, he'll come to the debriefing room. If I were him, I'd rip your heads off and use your skulls for my morning coffee, but he's nicer and more forgiving than me as we are very much aware, so we'll see. It's completely up to Coulson." Barton looks disappointed that no concrete answer is forthcoming, but he sighs in resignation and drops his hand from my shoulder.

"Sure. Okay." he mutters, and with a round of nods Barton and Romanoff march off, S.H.I.E.L.D agents parting before them, their spines straight and their strides confident, but their heads just a little lower than before. Good. They should be fucking ashamed.

I hurry off down the hall to find Agent Mei and get that damn password, only to find her leaning calmly on the wall around the next corner, ankles crossed and posture relaxed. She raises an eyebrow. "I got your call, I'm assuming the Avengers are back in town?"

"Yeah, they finally decided to show up, which means-"

"You need the password for Coulson's cell. So predictable Maria." I frown at her and, so fast I almost miss it, she winks. "Well thank god for that, I was getting real fed up of sneaking Coulson the newspaper and check ups for all his agents."

I blink, uncomprehending.

Mei, immovable, unbreakable, emotionless _Mei_, rolls her eyes as if disappointed. "I was one of Coulson's pet agents as well you know, and contrary to popular belief I hate the Council as much as everyone else. But you catch more flies with honey than vinegar so…" she shrugs. "It's always useful to pretend to mindlessly follow orders. No-one ever suspects a thing."

I'm speechless. Literally speechless. I open my mouth to talk but nothing comes out. I suppose I should've known better as a spy not to make assumptions about people but it appears to be unavoidable. But Mei, disobeying the Council? What?

"Yeah, um… okay, great idea." I stutter out, before regaining my wits. "Wait, so you put up with all the hateful looks and snide comments for a whole month for imprisoning Coulson when you were actually doing your best to help him out?"

Mei shrugs, completely blasé. "Can't have everyone knowing my secrets."

"I'd hug you if that wasn't a disgustingly mushy way of showing emotion."

Mei nods. "Agreed. Don't hug me, it's just nasty."

After a momentary pause of contemplating how very weird most people are with their hugging and kissing and hand holding and just _ugh_, I get back on track. "So, Coulson's cell? I don't think he'd appreciate us standing around here gossiping."

Mei smirks vampirically. "The code is cavalry. In binary."

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "But you hate that name?"

"Exactly." Mei strides past me, gently patting my shoulder on her way past. "No-one would ever have guessed that, now would they?" She lets out a last snicker, and then disappears like a puff of smoke before I can even turn around.

Stupid freaking ninjas.

When I reach the outside of the cellblock, I'm met by suspicious, squinty eyed looks. "Identity please ma'am."

I could deck them, I really could. Like they don't know who I am, those stupid, pompous, ego-inflated morons of the highest proportions. I should demote the whole damn lot of them. I won't, because they're good at their jobs, but it's a nice thought. Sucking in a whistling breath through my teeth, I hand over my ID card and watch as it is carefully scanned in every possible way to make sure it's genuine.

"You can go through, ma'am, but you need to leave any and all weapons and technology here, for your own safety."

Great, well isn't this just karma. I strip the Avengers of their weapons, and now I have to give up mine. Oh the irony. Sighing in annoyance I drop my two handguns, a knife from my shoe and another from my right thigh, a lipstick taser and my tablet. I keep the knife in my bra though. I'm not walking around completely defenceless, and besides, I'm busting out _Coulson_ for heavens sake. He better not even think about going in my bra, even for a knife. The mere thought of that freaks me out, and not in a fun way.

Hurrying up to the only occupied cell (a rarity, for S.H.I.E.L.D), I type in the onerously long code into the glowing keypad. 01100011 01100001 01110110 01100001 01110010 01111001. My brain hurts after translating that. Why binary? Why not Spanish, or Latin or something? Binary sucks.

My eyes land on an unshaven and bored looking Coulson lounging on his bed, hands crossed on his chest and eyes closed. He doesn't even look up to check the door, his head remaining stubbornly on his pillow. "Well it's about time Mei-"

I lean against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed and a hip cocked. "Well, what a way to greet a jailbreak. I'm wounded, truly I am."

Phil jolts up into a sitting position, eyes wide open as though he's been shocked. "Maria?"

"Hey Phil." I say quietly, stepping into the room and sitting on the bed next to him, leaving the door open behind me. "How are you?"

"Better, for seeing you. I've missed that stupid face of yours, but at this point I'm so bored I can't say I'd mind some paperwork." Coulson grins cheekily, eyes sparkling, but he sobers almost immediately. "Is this an actual jailbreak or are you just being overdramatic?"

"Nah, you're getting out of here. The Avengers and co. decided to finally show up, along with a guest."

"A guest?" Coulson asks with real surprise. "Who?"

"So you really didn't know what they were up to." I muse.

"Of course I didn't!" Phil exclaims. "They just asked me to trust them that going AWOL was necessary, and I did. Contrary to popular belief, they are actually responsible adults when it really matters. So, who's this guest?"

"The Winter Soldier." I say flatly, carefully watching Phil's reaction. He doesn't disappoint.

He whips around to check my face for a joke with wide eyes, and when he doesn't find one he looks reasonably horrified. "Well shit." he whispers quietly, almost to himself. He turns back to me as a thought strikes him. "So they know? Steve knows?"

"We can only assume so." I sigh. "I don't know how they managed to work it out though. The file I wrote is buried so deep in the paper trails it'd take several armies to track it down, there's no digital information on it, not so much as a pixel for Stark to get hold of…it must have been Barton or Romanoff. They must have made a connection between the Winter Soldier they fought beside, and against, and Captain Rogers' 'dead' best friend. Maybe they saw one of his drawings, or went to the museum…Whatever happened, I'd quite like to damn it to the deepest, darkest depths of hell, because it's made my life a great big pain in the ass."

"I wouldn't damn it at all." Coulson argues passionately. "Quite the opposite actually. You know that I always though we should tell Steve the truth, it wasn't fair to leave him in the dark that there was still hope to rescue the only man he failed, god, you could see the pain in his eyes every time he mistakenly called one of the other Avengers Bucky. And the Winter Soldier needed help too, or at least stopping. I still think we should have told Rogers the truth sooner."

"And you know why we didn't." I snap, with perhaps more force than necessary, but I'm not in the mood for a debate about morality. "Honestly Phil, grow up. This is the perfect world of your fanboy dreams. Yes, it's ended happily, whoop de doo. But we made our decisions, they might not have been moral ones, but they were right, and I stand by them. You should too. And somehow by god's name they don't know what we covered up, and I'm hoping it stays that way so we don't have WW3 on our hands and the Avengers after our scalps. So, we didn't know anything, it was a pleasant surprise for us, _understood_?" There is an underlying tone of warning and threat in my tone which Coulson doesn't look happy about, but he nods his agreement anyway. "Excellent. Now for Christ's sake man let's go get you a razor and a suit, you look awful."

Coulson rubs a hand across his stubble-covered chin ruefully, and looks down at his shamefully baggy tracksuit-style prison-garb monstrosity. "That would be wonderful."

"Great!" I enthuse, jumping up and offering a hand to pull Coulson to his feet. "Let's go then."

On our way to Coulson's quarters the corridors are full of gossiping agents of all ranks, who, upon seeing Coulson, respectfully scoot out of our way and line the walls, applauding enthusiastically. Coulson alternates between blushing, waving back like the shameless attention whore he is, and looking at me with shining eyes as if to say 'Can you believe this?' And I certainly can believe it, I was almost expecting it to happen. S.H.I.E.L.D _needs_ me, it _fears_ Fury, but everyone _adores_ Coulson. No exceptions.

Soon enough, we reach our quarters, and I lounge around on Phil's sofa as he changes from prison scruff to impeccable agent in record time. Cradling hot cups of decent coffee (something everyone on this rust bucket rarely enjoys), we make our way back towards the Avengers and our little problem.

I turn to Phil. "So, who do you want?" I ask, "the Avengers or old snowflake?"

"The Avengers, definitely the Avengers." Phil says immediately. "You know more about our beloved guest, and you're far better at interrogation than I am. But be nice Hill," he warns, "whatever he did in the past, he might not even remember it. Remember what they did to Natasha, it's exactly the same, except he never had an escape route, he never had a Clint to recue him."

"Great." I grumble half-heartedly, not really meaning it, "Now I have to pretend to be nice, and kind, and understanding, and helpful…ugh."

Phil claps me on the back with a grin. "Have fun Maria! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and make some hardened warriors cry for my forgiveness. See you later!" and then off he goes, the slight bounce in his stride showing how glad he is to be out of that cell, and how much fun he's planning to have making the Avengers apologise. I can't help but sigh fondly. Only Phil.

Arriving at the Interrogation block I hand over all of my tech and weapons, but this time I hand in my comm and the knife in my bra as well. I'm not taking any chance where the Winter Soldier is concerned; he's far too dangerous and has killed far too many good agents for that.

I turn to the guard on the right of the door. "Agent Raza, please go and lock the door to the observation room for this cell, turn off the cameras and don't let anyone in. _Anyone_. Without my express permission."

"Yes Deputy Director." he nods, and strides off. Well, that's one less thing to worry about. I might be a spy, but I hate being spied _on_. Paranoid, who me?

I stride into the room and take a seat on one side of the cold, hard metal table, with the infamous assassin already sat on the other. We stare at each other for a long, silent minute, contemplating, calculating, appraising. His fingers sit laced together on the table between us, metal digits and flesh folded together in a menacing pattern, colder, calmer, and with none of the uncertainty he showed upstairs. His eyes meet mine, unblinking, unwavering, his expression flat and blank and empty. It's an intimidation tactic, a power play, the same ones I myself am constantly employing. Everyone knows it pays to be scary.

The removal of his emotional crutch (à la Captain Rogers) has made him stronger, or weaker depending on how you see it. Rogers obviously makes him feel safe and protected, and that made him feel as though he could show his weaknesses and insecurities without being ripped apart. But down here, where he's alone, defenceless and isolated, his shields have gone up, his weaknesses almost surgically removed. He is far more afraid now than before, he's just concealing it far better.

"So," I ask, breaking the silence once I have the information I need (I dread whatever he just discovered about me), "what will I be calling you?"

"I've spent the last month being told that I am Lt. James 'Bucky' Barnes. But for seventy years before that, I was only ever the Winter Soldier." There is the smallest hint of a question in his words, the poor soul is obviously having an identity crisis, and who can blame him? What would you do if you spent seventy years as a weapon, only to discover you were a person before, and a good person at that?

I smile as kindly as I can, it's only a small smile with no teeth, but it's a sincere-ish one. "I'll be calling you Lt. Barnes then, okay?"

He nods, only once, a strand of hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He brushes it back impatiently, and that is how I know he isn't lying; that one small action of eagerness to get through this, in tact and trusted, speaks volumes where words cannot.

"So Lt. Barnes. What is your purpose." I leave the question open to interpretation intentionally, watching intently for what he has to say. Hopefully, it will tell me more about him, about his morals and his psyche.

He doesn't disappoint. "America and the rest of the world always had their heroes and their supersoldiers and their technology-fuelled armies to protect them. But Russia? She only ever had her Winter."

"That's a nice idea. It's…poetic." I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. "But I'm asking _you_, not whoever force fed you that speech. Let's try something else, shall we? Why are you here?"

"Because I want to be _me_, with my own memories, making my own choices. Because Steve and Natasha are two of so few people I've known that aren't dead, because they're trying to help me with no visible ulterior motives. Because if I'm going to escape my masters I need S.H.I.E.L.D's protection. Because I want to be able to answer 'who am I?' without grasping at threads for something to say." His answers are rapid fire and seemingly heartfelt, his brown eyes blazing with conviction in what he is saying in a complete contrast to his last, dead-eyed answer.

"You want your memories, control of your own life, and people you can trust to have your back? We can do that." I say confidently, and the slight crinkling around Barnes' eyes shows he is pleased by that. "Next question. Who are you loyal to?"

"Myself." he replies immediately, then pauses for thought. "Steve. I suppose I owe the Avengers a debt." He trains his brown eyes on me shrewdly. "If S.H.I.E.L.D gives me a chance to prove myself, I may become loyal to you."

"Excellent. And who do you trust?"

"No-one." He is utterly sure in his answer. "Especially not myself."

"That is understandable, given your particular situation. How much do you remember of your past?"

Barnes smiles, the tiniest, most self-depreciating, drastically unhappy smile anyone has ever seen. "I'd tell you all I can recall as a show of trust, but I really don't think you care about any of it that isn't of strategic value, and that's what I remember least of all."

Actually, I'm intrigued, but like I'd give him that kind of power over me. As of right know, he's still an unknown variable, and I don't trust 'Bucky' as far as I could shift the Hulk. Which, needless to say, is nowhere at all. "And why wouldn't I care Lt. Barnes?"

"You are a blank, emotionless, faceless, careless government issue agent. You aren't here for me, or for the Avengers, you're here for knowledge. You don't want to hear about my happy clappy childhood or my friendships or anything about _me_, you want information that you can _use_."

"Then give me something I can _use_ Lieutenant, give me any of your missions you can remember that I can corroborate and prove you aren't lying to me." I ask, shooting him full of intense looks and ratcheting up the pressure in the atmosphere around us.

"Romanoff and I." he pauses, ostensibly to collect his thoughts, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's for dramatic effect, "We shared a mission, once upon a time. Our old masters, whom she eventually murdered brutally and without a shred of mercy by the way, thought it would be amusing to give us a little challenge." Venom drips from his words. "They gave us two codenames, Storm and Snowflake, and told us to fight over who would get which."

"She won." I say, and his head whips up from where it had drooped to look at his fingers. "She won by sticking your hand in a light socket, and she that's why she still calls you snowflake."

"How did you…" he trails off expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"I know a lot of things, I have very loyal agents." I pause, a minute smile pulling at my lips. "And I read the mission transcripts."

He huffs with brief amusement, turning away to look over my shoulder. He freezes, going as still as death, and flicks his eyes to me, then back to the spot over my shoulder, then back to me. "I-I know you." he whispers.

"You do." I say gently. "We…well I suppose 'met' isn't quite correct, but…"

"When?" he asks, his confusion clear, "Where? Why?"

"1997, at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility known as the Treehouse. You were sent to kill Director Fury. We were getting a little too close to your bosses' operations for comfort, so you got sent to take out the man at the top to send us into disarray. I was there."

"I-I think I remember…flashes…unconnected images. The shadows sitting on your face, out of the corner of my eye…it must have triggered my memories." He sounds lost and confused, the smooth façade of the Winter Soldier not just cracked or broken but completely gone, leaving a wild, shaking, scared young man in his place.

"Would you like me to tell you what I know?" There's sympathy in my voice, and try as I might I can't stamp it out. Well, if he's acting, he's so damn good he practically deserves to bring down S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Yes." he says eagerly, looking painfully hopeful. Then: "Please." he tacks on the end, probably some old 40's gallantry resurfacing.

"It seemed as though you had just teleported into Management, you arrived so silently, not tripping a single alarm or alerting a single guard. It took us five years to work out how you did it, and we were impressed to say the least. You strode through the door, dropping a dead assistant from your metal hand as you did so. We had heard the rumours of the Winter Soldier just like everyone else, everyone in the underworld had, but when _we_ couldn't prove it we wrote you off as just another Russian myth. Obviously, we were wrong. Your right hand held a pistol, and with it you put a bullet through the hearts of all 10 extremely dangerous, highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D agents in the room, with the only exception being Director Fury. And, of course, myself. You _missed_." Barnes flinches like it's a shameful thing, and I hurry to reassure him. "And I am very, very grateful for that fact. I was the first person you aimed at, and I was in the process of sitting in my chair when you stormed in, so I froze. You, of course, assumed I would carry on sitting down, so you aimed accordingly. You hit me here," I say, pointing at a spot just below my collar bones, "and damn, did it hurt like a bitch. I collapsed to the floor, and I assume you thought I was dead. Shielded from your view by my desk, I dragged myself up the wall as you shot up the rest of the room. You pointed your gun at Fury and said 'I've been told to create a message for S.H.I.E.L.D to fear for centuries Director.' Fury must've caught sight of me raising my gun, or maybe he really is that much of an arrogant bastard, even in the face of death. He crossed his arms impatiently and said 'Well, get on with it then. If you wait any longer I'll have to get on with my paperwork.' Do you remember what happened next?"

"My back, there's a scar there." Barnes says after a moments thought. "I have no memory of it, the kind that comes with a deep memory wipe. Usually, the painful memories stay with me the most, but in this case, that's all I remember. Extreme pain, right between the shoulders. Now you've retold the story, I've got a couple of blurred snapshots, but that's it." Barnes winces slightly, rolling his shoulders as if reliving the old wound.

"You're right. I, perhaps over-excitedly, shot you right between the shoulder blades. My sincerest apologies." Actually, I think it was quite funny, but I can't admit that. Usually, laughing at their pain tends to piss people off.

Barnes, perhaps despite himself, smirks and huffs out a laugh. I'm glad he sees the humour in the situation too. "Apology accepted Deputy Director Hill. No permanent harm was done anyway."

The sense of humour immediately drops from the room, and I feel ashamed for being able to keep looking him in the eyes. Brainwashed or not, Barnes still has the Winter Soldier's skills, and he notices the change instantly. "No permanent harm was done…right?"

I sigh sadly. "You need to know."

"Need to know what Agent?" His big brown eyes bore into me, looking open and confused and lost.

"That you can't trust us. We're not the good guys."

"But you're S.H.I.E.L.D… you protect people. You save the world. The Avengers work for you. I-I'm afraid I don't understand."

"When we…when _I_ shot you, you dropped to the floor, unmoving. But, obviously, you survived, despite the odds. We kept you alive, but unconscious, because it was decided you were too indoctrinated and dangerous to wake up for questioning. Instead, I conducted my research…" I pause, realise I'm not looking Lt. Barnes in the eyes, and turn back to him. "I am very, very good at my research."

Looking at the clenched fist of his metal hand, I suddenly reconsider not bringing any weapons to defend myself. I am, having made the very stupid decision of turning off the security, practically defenceless. However, in balance, me having a comforting safety blanket is not worth S.H.I.E.L.D's secrets becoming common knowledge, nor presenting the Winter Soldier with an easily accessible weapon. Still, I am very close to terrified.

"What are you saying?" he says slowly.

"I always knew who the Winter Soldier was. Who you were. I knew Lt. Barnes of the Howling Commandos had somehow survived his fall from the train, that the Russian KGB bought your still breathing corpse to see if you contained any trace of the supersolider serum, and when you didn't, they cut off your utterly mangled left arm and replaced it with a bionic one. I knew you weren't killing of your own volition. I knew what 'treatments' you were likely suffering from. I knew _everything_. And I sent you back to Russia without ever trying to help you. I can't say I'm sorry, because I'm not. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D, I do what is necessary. But I wanted you to know the truth, that's the best I can do."

Barnes is calm, deceptively so. He gives me a hard look which is not so much forgiving as it is understanding, but when he opens his mouth to speak a loud ruckus by the door brings him up short. We both jump from our seats and slip into defensive stances facing the door on instinct. All we have time for is to exchange a look that reads 'Is this about you or me?' before the door flies off its hinges.

Before I can so much as register…well, anything really, I'm knocked off my feet and pinned to the wall by the means of a forearm crushing my throat. Instinctively I scrabble at the arm with my nails, and then punch at a rock hard stomach with my fists, but all that accomplishes is making my knuckles hurt. Then, overriding my monkey brain despite my complete lack of oxygen, I start analysing my rather perilous situation.

My attacker has blond hair. Blue eyes. Tanned skin. Chiselled features. An angry snarl plastered across his face.

Fucking hell it's Captain America.

"HOW COULD YOU?" he yells, and Christ is he mad. I don't understand how he heard what I said to Barnes when he's supposed to be at a debriefing on the other side of the ship, but he did and I'm suffering for it. "HOW COULD YOU ABANDON HIM? HOW COULD YOU LIE TO MY FACE WHEN I WAS MOURNING HIS DEATH? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST TELL ME HE WAS ALIVE? I COULD'VE RESCUED HIM NEARLY A YEAR AGO! WHY DIDN'T _YOU_ RESCUE HIM? WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE HIM A CHANCE? WHY DIDN'T YOU TRUST ME?"

I scrabble desperately against the wall, kicking and punching as black spots swarm all over my vision from lack of oxygen, my feet not even touching the floor. I might say I'm fighting for my life, but 'fighting' suggests I even think I have a chance of winning. Which I don't.

Rogers is bearing down on me, most of his considerable weight braced by his forearm on my increasingly endangered neck. I can't fight, I can't plead, I can't explain, I can't escape, I can't _breathe_…frankly, I'm royally screwed. This is a FUBAR situation if ever I've seen one.

"Steve." says Barnes calmly, laying a hand on his incensed friend's shoulder, "Agent Hill isn't going to be able to explain anything with you crushing her airways. Besides, I'm fine now. So step back, and leave her be." Thank the heavens for Lt. Barnes. But the irony in him saving my life…I'd be swallowing my guilt if I was able to swallow. Maybe I'd even breathe out an apology if I could, y'know, _breathe_.

"Fine." Steve spits, stepping back and leaving me to collapse to the floor on my knees, huddled down as far away as I can get from the supersolider in a final self-preservation instinct. I start choking and gasping and heaving up the lunch I didn't have on the floor, gently massaging the feeling back into my red and throbbing neck with both hands.

Above me, Steve grabs Bucky tightly by his metal hand and pulls him close to his side as if afraid I'll find some way to make the Winter soldier disappear once again. "C'mon Bucky." he commands, dragging his friend out of the room, "We're getting you outta here and away from S.H.I.E.L.D in case they decide to hand you back over to your handlers again because _it's too difficult to save you_." He snarls the last words as he disappears down the corridor, Barnes being towed behind him.

Only death rattles are escaping my lips, and I know what that means and I'm scared, I'm so very scared. Breaths crawl their way up my throat, but it's not enough. I try to scrabble my way over to the door of the Interrogation room so I can alert the agents in the corridor to my predicament, but my oxygen deprived brain is fuzzy and I overshoot, smashing my head against the corner of my metal chair leg. I hear a crack, I register pain, and everything goes black.

(**I*I**)

After a heart-warming video chat in the medical wing with Coulson on the much favoured topic of 'What the fuck were you thinking?', which has been very popular among all S.H.I.E.L.D agents and handlers in every S.H.I.E.L.D facility since the dawn of our organisation, I sign myself out from the dreaded medical wing (thank god for the privileges of Deputy Director) and hurry back out into the heli-carrier to see what I missed while I was unconscious.

Except, disconcertingly, it seems I'm not on the heli-carrier anymore. Spinning around, I take stock of my situation, analyzing the walls, floors, windows and agents surrounding me, quickly realising that I am in fact in the New York ground base. Obviously, Coulson decided to change my location to make it harder for the apparently not-so-chivalrous Captain to find me if he decides he wants to get some revenge, considering I seem to be the focus for his ire. I am seriously excellent at making powerful enemies, let me tell you, a little too excellent for comfort actually.

"Deputy Director!" comes a familiar voice from down the hall. I look up, and register Agent Yousif power-walking towards me, files and folders clutched in her hands.

"Agent Yousif. I thought you were up on the heli-carrier these days."

She haphazardly blows a strand of hair out of her face, coming to a stop in front of me and shifting us both out of the flow of agents and into a smaller side corridor. "I am based up there yes, but I was shipping out for a mission when Coulson comes running around, flapping about how you'd been hurt and 'where is that damn cloning device when you need to be in two places at once?' So I volunteered to stick around for an extra day, keep you company and help you out and whatnot while Coulson deals with the fallout over at Avengers' Tower."

I swallow. "Do you know…how bad is the fallout?"

Her gaze flicks down to my neck, and she pulls out a pocket mirror. "See for yourself."

I snatch the mirror up and examine myself. My hair is a bird's nest, but I smooth it down and it doesn't look _too_ bad…oh who am I kidding, it looks fucking awful, but then again I've been asleep for I-don't-even-know-how-long so it's to be expected really. My forehead has a mass of black stitches covering my right temple, but my _neck_. Oh Lord Jesus Christ my neck.

I haven't seen it up until now and my mouth hangs open slightly at the sight of it. If I saw another agent in this state I'd forcibly consign them to bed rest for a week, no exceptions. No wonder my voice sounds scratchy and my breaths are raspy.

There's no other way to put it: it's a disaster zone. My entire neck, almost all the way back to my ears, is one mottled black and red and purple bruise that makes me wince just looking at it. It's like no other strangulation mark I've ever seen before, usually they're bad, yes, but they're done by normal people's hands, not the entire weight of an angry supersoldier's body.

I look up at Yousif's concerned face and smile weakly. "Um…thank god for turtlenecks?"

"I'm afraid it's being consigned to your quarters or normal uniform Agent Hill." The pretty black woman admits sheepishly. "Fury's orders."

"Ah." Great, looks like Fury is going for the 'remind everyone just how dangerous the Avengers could be' angle again, he knows I'll be working come hell or high water and this way every other agent will see my injury and start to spread the word. Which, I would definitely approve of, _if_ it didn't stir up pity in some agents and make others think that, since I was 'weak', they can pull a fast one on me. They can't, but then I have to track down and beat the shit out of more agents than usual, which might put a strain on my throat with all that yelling.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I can get Coulson to send someone else on that mission and stick around as your assistant so you can hide in your office for a while?"

"That's sweet Agent Yousif, but you don't need to miss out on an exciting mission to fetch and carry for me instead. I'd grab myself a rookie assistant if I needed one, but as it is I can manage by myself. Besides, I spent a good half an hour planning that mission out for you, we wouldn't want that to go to waste now would we?" I wink and she smirks. "Dubai, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to go to Romanoff but then Intelligence found out the target is a racist asshole who only beds black chicks, on top of kidnapping rich kids for ransom and letting his men have them however they want until the parents cough up practically all their money." We both shudder. In my opinion, the worst crimes are always against children, they should be protected and cherished and showered in love. And I'm not even the sentimental type.

"See? You don't want to miss out on taking that guy down. If you're promotion-hunting you'd probably be better of being nice to Coulson, just to let you know."

"Promotion?" Agent Yousif snorts, "Ha, and end up doing paperwork for the rest of my career? No thank you, that is _not_ for me. If I have my way I'm staying as good old Level Seven, Special Agent Raven until the day I die. If it seems like I'm ever sucking up to you, it's because I _don't_ want a promotion. Ever."

"Fair enough. I'll promote you the next time you piss me off." I grin, and after a half-hearted angry glare, she grins back.

"Has anyone seen Agent Hill?" the question is faint, obviously quite far away, but when Yousif sticks her head out into the corridor to take a look she turns back to me with wide eyes.

"It's him."

I bite down my comment of 'no shit I heard him too' and snap into mission mode. Nothing like the threat of your own imminent death to get the adrenaline flowing. "How far away?" I forcibly beat down the internal panicking and the 'How the hell did he find me?' screaming.

She sticks her head back into the hallway again and then returns back to me. "200ft. he's armed, but not fuming. More…worried and resentful. About 50/50 that he's dangerous. We need to move."

And then suddenly, my decision is made. "No." I snap. Yousif turns back to me with a surprised look. "We're not running. Supersolider or not, no-one is turning my safe places into prisons. S.H.I.E.L.D is my home, not his, so if he has a problem with me he can just fuck off."

"He might kill you y'know." she warns.

"I know. That's where you come in. If you run, it should take you five minutes to get to the Weapons Vault and grab the contingency plan for a rogue Captain America. The electrified nets should subdue him, and if he really is out to kill me or bring down S.H.I.E.L.D or whatever else he might hypothetically be doing in his hypothetical grief-induced madness, I should, bar my agents deciding to help him rather than me, be able to escape in your direction and we can meet up faster."

"Right." Yousif nods and gets ready to take off running. Feeling slightly guilty, (what is with me lately?), I lay a hand on her shoulder.

"You know helping me out here probably means you'll be working against the living legend of Captain America himself?"

She rolls her eyes. "While you've saved my ass out in the field numerous times, he hasn't done anything yet to commandeer my direct loyalty. After I save your ass, we can be on first name basis, _Maria_. Besides," she winks, "I was never interested in dating him anyway. Too…patriotic." She fakes a gag. "And as a Brit, it's sickening." And with that, she's gone.

I crinkle my nose slightly in confusion. Looks like someone around here can resist that ass after all. Who would've guessed?

"Has anyone seen Agent Hill?" Rogers' voice is louder now, and I hide behind my corner, steadying myself. Last chance to back out now.

A very young-looking agent stops directly in front of where I'm standing, looking entirely normal except for an obviously forced calm breathing rate. "Hey kid," Rogers himself says and _oh god he's so close he's right there_, "have you seen Agent Hill?"

"N-no sir." she stutters, even though I know she must be able to see me in her peripheral vision. Brave kid. I make a mental note to find out who she is and give her a reward for her loyalty under pressure. And some training, her nervous shaking can probably be seen from 50 states away.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I square my shoulders, lift my chin into a haughty tilt and step out into the hallway. "Thank you Agent, but you can leave now. I'll handle this." I position myself slightly in front of her and fold my hands behind my back, showing her the military sign equivalent of 'Fucking run!'. By the quick shuffling of rapidly retreating footsteps, I think she got the message.

"Maria…uh, Agent Hill. Deputy Director?" he stutters out nervously, eyes locked on my exposed throat. My throat throbs, and too late I remember the bruising. Hopefully it will make him feel guilty and not urge him to try and finish the job.

"What do you want Captain?" I snap out, desperately holding my rigid posture to try and hide my shaking. I've never really realised just how tall or well-muscled Rogers is until suddenly he's on the other side and I'm squaring off against him. "I'm already behind schedule what with my unexpected trip to the hospital and all."

"I wanted to apologise for my behaviour yesterday. I was beyond angry, but my conduct towards you was unacceptable. I uh…" he awkwardly scratches at his throat, "I hope that doesn't hurt too much."

I suck in a breath through my teeth. '_I hope that doesn't hurt too much_?' What the hell? He tried to fucking strangle me to death, to crush my windpipe and basically suffocate me, and that's all he can come out with? "That was a shit apology. Absolutely _shit_. I could've died you complete and utter asshole."

He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms across his chest as if physically holding in his temper. "You abandoned Bucky. In what universe wouldn't I be furious?"

"And that is between myself and Lt. Barnes, who has every right to be angry and distrustful of me and of S.H.I.E.L.D as a whole. But that's none of your business Rogers, so I suggest you suck it up and get over yourself. You haven't exactly been brimming with morals yourself lately."

"But that's exactly what I don't get!" Steve throws his arms out wide in exasperation, like I'm too stupid to get his point. "You're Maria Hill, right? And this is S.H.I.E.L.D."

I forcefully have to stop myself rolling my eyes. Congratulations Captain Obvious, have a gold star.

"And you're the good guys." He continues, blue eyes wide and searching. "You protect the world, save people, make sure that everything's as it should be. But you failed Bucky. You _failed_ him, and you just don't seem fazed by it. You all just moved on without a second thought or a care in the world while he suffered and killed and faded away on the inside. I just don't get it, that's what's making me so mad! You are S.H.I.E.L.D. You are supposed to help, but you damned him to hell. Why?"

"Oh for gods sake you idealistic sack of shit," I spit out, "do I have to spell it out for you? We. Are. Not. Good. People. We aren't an inherently good organisation, we employ spies and assassins and traitors and double agents and not a single person here, from the janitors to the kitchen staff to the agents themselves, hasn't done something that they will regret for the rest of their often very short lives. We kill one man to save hundreds, destroy innocent people because they pose too great a threat, let drug lords run rampant because they're better than the alternative, we steal and lie and betray and do everything Mommy made you promise to never, ever do. And we do it because it is _necessary_. Newsflash Captain! What we do isn't pretty, or righteous, or even good, no, we do bad things to keep even worse things from happening. S.H.I.E.L.D is the grey area that holds up your white and keeps the black down. The ends justify the means, Captain, that's what Niccolo Machiavelli said, and that's the principle S.H.I.E.L.D is built on. So go ahead, tear us apart, but don't come crying to me when there's nothing left standing between you and everything bad in the world, because getting rid of S.H.I.E.L.D to get rid of evil deeds is just putting out a goddamned fire with gasoline."

I hadn't noticed the crowd that had gathered around us during my speech, passionate as I was, so the low smattering of applause that begins after I finish makes me start in surprise. Arrayed all around me in a semi-circle, every rank and type of S.H.I.E.L.D agent is represented, watching with wide and impressed eyes. The applause swells rapidly, agents grinning proudly at me, and it's all I can do to stop overwhelmed tears falling as I turn slowly from side to side, my lips parting in awe.

I don't think I've ever been prouder of myself than I am in this moment. I just stood up to _Captain America_ to defend the actions of the agency I and so many others have devoted their lives too, and it looks like I've won. I crack out a smile and turn back to Rogers with renewed confidence and my hands on my hips, bruised throat proudly raised.

"So I suggest that until you can reconcile yourself with the way things are, you get the hell out of my agency until you can look me in the eyes and say 'I understand'. Because to work as a hero in this modern day world where all the lines are blurred, you have to be strong, but you more importantly you have to be able to bend. Morals are of no use to a dead man, and dead men can't save the world. Ask Barton. Ask Romanoff. Ask Carter or Coulson or Fury or any of the agents you see around you. But don't blame us for what we have to do. Everyone has done things they regret, but you wouldn't judge them by that. So don't judge us, either."

Rogers stares at me blankly, his blue eyes a maelstrom of emotions, tanned arms hanging loosely by his sides. After what seems like an eternity, he nods once, slowly, and turns to leave, the S.H.I.E.L.D agents parting to give him a clear exit. And just like that, he's gone, the threat he posed eradicated, for now anyway.

Almost immediately I turn my attention back to the surrounding agents. "What do you lot think you're doing? The show's over and there isn't gonna be an encore so get back to work!" With either hasty nods or rolling eyes the agents disperse, leaving only Agent Yousif behind.

The deadly black woman grins broadly. "Huh, looks like you saved your own ass and didn't need me after all. I'll be off on my mission then, if you've got no other commands for me?"

"Just one." I say, and her smile drops. "When you get back off your mission go to Firefly on second street in downtown New York, 2000 hours. I'll pay for drinks."

She tips back her head and laughs loudly. "You really had me going there for a second…can I keep the electric nets?"

"No. Put them back where they belong for god's sake, today's evidence of why we need contingency plans if ever there was one. But thanks, for being prepared to save my ass and everything." I rub the back of my neck awkwardly. I hate apologising.

"You'd do the same, otherwise I probably wouldn't have bothered. I mean, have you seen his ass? Phwoar. Anyway, toodles!" And with that, the irrepressible Level 7 Agent Rawan Yousif, codenamed Raven, skips off down the corridor like a ten year old girl high on sugar. I can't help but shake my head. S.H.I.E.L.D agents, Mei and Yousif alike, never fail to surprise me.

So, a recap. The Avengers have come back, along with the dead-but-not-really-dead-and-how-many-times-has-he-even-'died'-at-this-point-really Winter Soldier, I rescued Coulson, I had a heart to heart with perhaps the world's oldest assassin, Rogers found out we are all liars (or at least compulsive omitters of the truth) and took revenge on my neck, and then I woke up and saved the world with a really bad attitude and an even cheesier inspirational speech, which, incidentally, just shot to Number Two on S.H.I.E.L.D's unofficial Top Ten Videos List.

All in all, I feel pretty pleased with myself.

In hindsight, I had no idea what was coming next.

**_Dun dun duuuuuuuh! What slightly ominous event could that rather vague ending be referring to? To be honest, you have as much an idea as I do…actually, I have a bit more of an idea considering I'm the author, but whatever._**

**_I'm assuming everyone knows what Lt. and FUBAR stand for, but just in case: Lt. = Lieutenant and FUBAR = fucked up beyond all repair/reason_**

**_I apologise profusely for how late this has been but I've been rather distracted over the summer because for some reason my teachers decided that OH THEY'RE IN GCSE's NEXT YEAR LET'S PILE ON THE HOMEWORK like? No, this is my summer, I want to write! I bet a lot of you thought I wasn't gonna continue this considering how long I've been gone, and the sporadic updates ain't gonna get any better what with an entire year of studying for exams and coursework coming up, but if you hang on in here I promise I'll try and make it worth it!_**

**_Y'know when you're just irrationally proud of one single line or whatever? In Hill's speech where she goes '_**Morals are of no use to a dead man, and dead men can't save the world.' **_I just… Tell me what you thought!_**

**_Anyway, next chapter. I can't make up my mind so I'm going to ask any and all of you to vote. The choices are:_**

Loki Fucks Up (or maybe SHE doesn't) **or** Coulson's Revenge Ends In A Fury-ous Explosion**_._**

**_The first one is probably gonna be longer and more of a story, the second one shorter and more of a scene. That's it, that's all I'm telling you to avoid spoilers. So, votes please!_**

**_Thank you for reading and please, please review for me!_**

**_23 word pages…23! No wonder it took so long, jeez!_**

**_Au revoir mes petits amis!_**


	4. Home Of The Thor Clones

**_Hi! So, apart from my frankly obsessive love of Maria Hill, I have no idea what to say here so…on with the story! Basically, as a complete noob I forgot no-one reads the author's comment at the end, so obviously none of you voted on which chapter you would prefer…(can't exactly blame you considering I do the same…) So basically, I decided fuck it, and am doing neither._**

**_If you recognise a few odd names in this, I nicked them just because I could, namely Abigail Brand. If you knew her, forget it. She's mine now. *evil laugh*_**

**_Thanks to my beta, run-robin-run, who has a severe case of fabulous, and to the most motivating human being on the planet, Sroloc Elbisivni. Thanks guys!_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be cannon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!_**

**_Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, French, sexism_**

I have very few friends. This should be obvious by now.

There are comrades, yes. The people that fight on, and by, my side. S.H.I.E.L.D agents, S.T.R.I.K.E agents, S.H.A.P.E agents…there are a lot of them to be sure. But then again, that means there are a lot of opportunities for traitors to stab me in the back. So, I don't trust them.

Then, there are the people I trust, to save the world, each other, and not to stab me in the back. Too often, anyway. Barton, Romanoff, Pepper, Yousif, 13, the rest of the Avengers, Fury, Mei, and most of the other highest level S.H.I.E.L.D agents…these are the people I trust. Even though I rarely, if ever, like them.

Finally, there are my friends. The people I actually like, rather than merely tolerate, and like me in return. Okay, so I'd go out for drinks with the women of S.H.I.E.L.D, but I know their loyalties lie elsewhere than with me. But my 'friends', well, I'd die for them. Stupid, I know, but it's true. And I always hold the belief they'd do the same for me in return (even though I'd be really, really pissed off with them. Like screaming-abuse-at-their-dead-body-with-tears-streaming-down-my-face pissed).

The first one of my 'friends' (because that just doesn't seem like a strong enough word) is, obviously, Coulson. My one and only partner through all my years in the field, with the steady, calming presence he always possessed, and the way he would be saving my life one minute and buying me my favourite donuts the next…we were the Barton and Romanoff of our time, we were Strike Team Gamma, we saved the world more times than anyone could ever count. He will forever be my platonic soul mate, as cheesy as that sounds.

Depressingly enough, I only have one other friend. I had more, once upon a time when I was a young, trusting, naïve little agent, but a lot of people die in our business and I never really had the time or the inclination to make new ones. Her name is Abigail Brand, Director of S.H.A.P.E, our European sister group. She's French, as French as you could possibly get and very proud of it, and she is absolutely stunning. Fine features, pale skin, bow-shaped lips and midnight hair dyed dark green at the ends…so she sounds like some hipster teenager? That's what everyone thinks, until suddenly your entire life gets pulled out from under you and everything starts dripping with red…

She's scary, vicious, powerful. We rose through the ranks together, her and I, on opposite sides of the Atlantic, even becoming Director and Deputy Director of our respective agencies within months of each other. There've been so many joint missions, one's we've been on together, one's we've supervised, ones we've saved. And that builds trust, which, eventually, turned into friendship. Yes, I know, moronic right? But it happens to the best of us.

"Ria, c'mon. You're gonna have to tell me what you're up to after such a strange request." On the screen, the petite Director's green eyes gleam in interest.

"I can't Abi, you know that."

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. "So, you ring me up in the middle of a very important meeting asking for a favour, on our private line I might add, and now I'm locked away in my office while my Deputies go crazy outside…and you're refusing to give me any reason as to why S.H.A.P.E should be ready to deal with any world crises for the next couple of days? Why, are you guys planning to blow up S.H.I.E.L.D again? Because let me tell you, last time you did that was not fun; you American bastards might be an arrogant lot but at least when you're around I don't have to deal with the Australians. Director Renouf is still pissed off at me."

I can't help but laugh. "Director Renouf is always pissed off at everyone. It's why him and Fury get along so well."

"And they are why us women have to stick together in our world, otherwise those two would probably rip us apart with their scowls and temper tantrums and seriously bad trust issues. But you know you can't trick me off the line of conversation that easily, ma amie. Tell me what's up, or fuck off."

And that's why we get along so well. Bluntness is ever a quality to be admired among spies. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you, but this is strictly under the table, understood? Fury's keeping this from everyone in the world, especially the other intelligence services. He'll have my guts for this if he finds out."

"Paranoid bastard." she says without malice. "Well, go on then, let's hear what crazy scheme you're up to now."

"We've been invited to Asgard to meet with the Allfather on behalf of Midgard as its diplomatic envoys. Fury and I are going as the diplomats, and the Avengers are coming along as bodyguards. Coulson's staying behind to run S.H.I.E.L.D, but even he can't manage his, mine _and_ Fury's jobs, so productivity at S.H.I.E.L.D will be down considerably, not to mention Earth will have its top team missing. We've got Dr. Strange, She-Hulk, Falcon, Iron Patriot, 13 and Agent Mei providing cover for any supervillain attacks, and the Winter Soldier has promised to help out if needed. You got the files on that particular incident I presume?"

"I was less than impressed with Roger's conduct, but it was a pretty speech on your behalf. 'Morals are of no use to a dead man, and dead men can't save the world'? I never took you for the lyrical type. And Asgard, really? Fury does realise he has no more right than the rest of us to represent the entire planet. He could've at least called the Director's Council for a vote."

"Under the table remember?" I remind Abigail quickly, worried she might accidentally drop me in it with Fury in the process of ripping off his head. "Fury'd end up going anyway because Thor already respects him, and the Asgardians are refusing to let anyone up there that their Prince hasn't previously met. They're nearly as paranoid as us…but not quite. And besides, I'm going to make sure Fury doesn't fuck up diplomatic relations and start a war; everyone knows he doesn't have a diplomatic bone in his body."

"Amen to that!" The S.H.A.P.E Director grins at me. "But in order for me to keep my lips shut, I want access to whatever cameras you manage to place on Asgard and wherever else you go."

"Me?!" I exclaim mockingly, "Place cameras in the home of our allies? Who do you take me for?" I only get a raised eyebrow in reply. "Okay fine, I'll patch you into the frequencies when I get back, that is, if frequencies transmit properly between Realms. Ah fuck it, I'm not astrophysicist, I'm just going for drop and hope here. Dr. Foster reckons that standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D mini-cameras and listening devices should work unless the Bifrost energies screw them up or some residual Asgardian magic messes with the signal…I digress. If they work, I'll send them to you, but for god's sake don't share with the rest of the Directors. Fury's dying to have a one-up on everyone else."

"Men." she sighs, and I can't help but agree. Suddenly, she tears her eyes away from the screen and frowns. "Mycroft, get out! I said private meeting you stupid rosbif! What…yes of course I know Fury's planning to go off-world, what do you think this meeting is about? He's not exactly subtle when he's smug…yes, start the S.H.I.E.L.D-fucked-up-again protocols…yes, we need to look after the world for a few days…oh god, fine, contact Director Renouf and tell him to get E.P. **(AN:Eastern Pacific)** ready for any worldwide fuck-ups…no, that'll be all. And Bond, I can see you lurking out there, take off your sunglasses for god's sake, we're inside! Mon dieu."

I can't help but snicker behind my hand at my friend's disgruntled expression. "I still can't believe you've got real life British agents working for you that are codenamed Mycroft, Bond, Sherlock, and Watson…it defies belief."

Abi turns back to her screen with a smirk. "British sense of humour I suppose, we've got M in Management and Q in SciTech as well…although I'm taking disciplinary against Bond if she won't stop insisting those sunglasses are always necessary, whatever oh-so-special adjustments they might have don't make her look any less ridiculous."

"I don't know how you Europeans survive with all your cultures and languages and odd senses of humour."

"And I have no idea how America hasn't sunk under the weight of its own arrogance yet." she responds to the age-old argument between us. "I'm holding you to your word about the cameras, but I've got to go. Holmes and Watson are gallivanting around Russia on a mission and I really need to make sure they don't make any more mortal enemies." My friend rolls her green eyes in fond exasperation, the same kind I hold for Barton and Romanoff. "Till next time."

"Till next time." I echo with a respectful parting nod, before hanging up the call, feeling considerably more confident that the world won't blow up on our trip to Asgard. Now I'm maybe 50% sure…55% at most. Although to be honest, I'm only 67% sure the world won't blow up on a good day.

Isn't that reassuring?

(**I*I**)

"Why do we have to stand so close together?" Stark's voice whines as he passes his red and gold 'suitcase' between his hands, "Captain Spanglepants is burning a hole in my chest plate with his Grandpa glare."

"You were taking advantage of us standing behind the ladies!" Steve defends himself irritably, attempting to rub the New Mexico sand out of his eyes.

"Checking people out isn't a crime these days Captain Chastity." Tony replies gleefully, sensing an opportunity to wind up his teammate.

Steve crosses his arms when he realises he's only making his itchy eyes worse by rubbing them. "You're in a relationship, it's not appropriate!"

Natasha marches over and treats them both to an eye-watering glare. "Both of you shut it, we're trying to make a good impression on Thor's dad when we go up to Asgard so we don't need you two squabbling over every little thing. Steve, pack it in, Maria and I can handle people staring at our asses, we're big girls and we can look after ourselves. And Tony, we are perfectly capable of hiding your body and consoling Pepper afterwards. Just ignore each other if you have to." The two men huff, but look away from each other, and a satisfied Natasha returns to her quiet conversation with Clint.

"So, Thor," an eager S.H.I.E.L.D scientist gushes to the god, "can you give us a detailed account of how the Bifrost works so we can add it to our notes?" It's not that S.H.I.E.L.D's scientists don't trust outsiders like Dr. Jane Foster…but they really don't trust outsiders like Dr. Jane Foster. To them, she just the lucky girl dating the alien prince whose notes they're 'borrowing'. I told you everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D was ruthless.

"Alas," Thor apologises ruefully, "I know nothing of the workings of the Bifrost, 'twas never in my area of interests…"

The scientist droops and trudges off as Fury whirls around on the Asgardian, coat flaring dramatically. "So let me guess," he growls, "that was Loki's job."

Lately, this has been a large area of contention between Thor and S.H.I.E.L.D. He knows next to nothing about the other Realms, and nothing of that is useful to us. And guess what the answer always is when we ask why? 'That was Loki's job/area/interest/lesson…' Basically, apart from as muscle to the Avengers and as a link to Asgard's monarchy, he's useless. More than once the lamentation that it would've been easier for us if Thor was the crazy son of a bitch and Loki was the Avenger has been heard around S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters. And it seems to me that Loki would have a lot less trouble filling out paperwork than Thor does…

"Friends," Thor booms, cheering up considerably, "gather round. I will summon the Bifrost henceforth."

With some groaning from the Avengers, who were less than impressed with Thor's insistent directions on where to stand, and excited scuttling of the surrounding scientists (including Jane Foster and co.) who were hoping to take new measurements, we were finally ready to go.

Thor, who is standing in front of the group, with Fury and I directly behind him and the Avengers tightly arrayed behind us, turns around to speak to the group. "Now remember, the Bifrost feels very peculiar to first time users, but all will be well. Keep breathing evenly, close your eyes if you begin to feel unwell, and try your best not to fall flat on your face upon our landing. That tends not to give a most favourable first impression." he chuckles. No-one else laughs, most of us looking understandably tense, but that doesn't seem to bother him.

"Heimdall!" he booms, raising Mjölnir skyward "Open the Bifrost!"

For a long moment nothing happens and Fury and I exchange a look, but then the black rainclouds above us start glowing and the last thing I hear is Clint's mutter of "Oh Christ." before the light descends and the Bifrost lifts us away.

The most overwhelming thing is the noise. A great roaring, like a thousand heli-carries shooting by or a million football fans screaming their approval or the bellowing of every animal on the planet in one, long, continuous whooshing past my ears that suddenly makes me feel unworthy to hear it. And then there's the light, every feasible colour and some that probably aren't whipping past so fast I'm barely able to register them, not to mention the shock of watching the bodies of the Avengers, Fury and myself bleed away into the barrage. It takes forever, it takes hours, it takes absolutely no time at all. It's everything, and nothing all at once. It is absolutely indescribable.

And then, all too soon and not soon enough, it's over.

We're spat out into a room covered in gold, which is all I can tell because my head just won't stop _spinning_. Thor carries on walking as if he wasn't just thrust through the vast abyss of space, Natasha, Clint and I all manage through years of training to land on our feet, Fury and Rogers both stumble and collapse to one knee, and, amusingly, Stark and Banner both go sprawling on the floor.

"Ooow." Stark groans, "Someone around here needs to invest in some cushions or something. This floor is hard and cold and now my face hurts. Who invents a magic space travel machine without a proper exit mechanism anyway?

"I see your friends are as dexterous as Midgardians ever were."

Immediately, all eyes in the room rise up to the large black man stood up on a platform, dressed in flamboyant gold armour with an amused twinkle in his striking gold eyes. Alright, so he's mocking us. Maybe if I could concentrate on anything other than not vomiting everywhere I could come up with a sarcastic answer. As it is, Planet Earth will just have to deal with insulting aliens on its own for a little while.

I vaguely notice Thor in my peripheral vision bounding up the platform and speaking to the man in gold in lowered tones. From what Thor has previously told us, that must be Heimdall, Asgard's Watchman. He likes ostentatious armour even more than Stark does, and that's saying something.

Thor finishes his conversation with Heimdall (who knew Thor was even capable of lowering his voice?) and makes a lap around the room, pulling people to their feet and checking that everyone is alright. This gives me time to survey my first glance of Asgard.

Gold. There's gold everywhere. Coating the walls of the spherical room we're stood in, the floor, the podium, even the man stood in it! It's like someone designed a really pretty building and then let King Midas run rampant. It's the gaudiest thing I've ever seen (and I've been inside Stark Tower).

"Lady Hill, you fare well?" Thor bounces over, the others following behind him. I can't help but notice Fury looking around, scowling even more ferociously than usual. Looks like someone's jealous.

"I'm fine Thor. Let's hurry up and get going, I'm falling asleep here."

The prince nods solemnly, and I can't help but sigh fondly about Thor's constant lack of understanding about sarcasm. He seems to grasp nearly everything Midgardian (he's an alien Prince for Christ's sake, he's not _completely _stupid), but sarcasm always passes him right by. It's annoying, but kind of adorable.

Outside on the rainbow bridge, a stable boy is waiting with a herd of regal-looking horses, who upon seeing Thor executes a bow so low his nose nearly touches the bridge. Now _that_ is flexibility.

"Crown Prince, Asgard rejoices at your return." His voice cracks on the last word and he colours immediately. So, looks like Asgardians go through puberty just like we do, although if they live 50 times longer than us, does that mean their puberty lasts 50 times longer too? Nasty.

"Thank you my friend." Thor says, nodding his head and kindly ignoring the boy's bright red cheeks and wide eyes. "Please take a horse ahead and warn the palace of our coming. There will be many preparations to be made in honour of our new friends."

"Aye sire." The boy literally jumps on a horse and gallops off down the bridge at death-defying speeds, either happy to see or terrified of Thor and his odd guests; I can't decide which.

Meanwhile, everyone else is leaning precariously over the edge of the Bifrost to look down into the Void below. Clint whistles quietly. "Damn son, I wouldn't want to fall down there." he says under his breath so Thor doesn't overhear and throw another Loki-related tantrum, "That has to turn anyone who survives it into a crazy son of a bitch. I'm surprised Loki retained whatever twisted sanity he has left."

After that wonderfully cheerful commentary, we all walk back to Thor, who is grinning excitedly and is practically bouncing with anticipation about getting to finally show his friends around his home. He's like a huge, well-muscled, extremely powerful, super deadly puppy. Isn't that a strange image?

The first thing that clues me into something strange is the saddles on the horses. An odd thing to notice I know, but upon seeing them the feeling something unpleasant is going on settles in my chest. Two of the saddles are for side-saddle riding, and are obviously meant for Natasha and I. Nothing good ever comes of differentiating between the sexes, especially when someone is insinuating women can't do whatever men can do, like riding. Ladylike my ass. Do I look like I'm wearing a dress?

Thor doesn't seem to realise anything wrong, even after all the times he says Sif walloped him for sexism when they were younger. I bet _she_ doesn't ride side-saddle. Rogers, Stark and Banner, ever ignorant, don't notice as they walk over to the horses, Tony and Steve arguing over who has which horse and Bruce looking mildly terrified as the large animals snort and stamp their hooves. Fury looks at me, the saddles, Natasha, the saddles, and me again, and just rolls his eye. He knows shit is going to go down, now, or later. He's not bothered, he's seen it all before.

Clint and Natasha exchange sidelong glances, before Clint hands Natasha up and onto one of the side-saddled horses with a shit-eating grin that speaks volumes about how this is his revenge for one past mission or another. Natasha makes use of her positioning to kick her partner sharply in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back quite a few steps, clutching his shoulder overdramatically, a look of mock pain on his face.

Sighing, I approach my horse, looking at the side-saddle with what I know must be an extremely sour look on my face. She's huge, a beautifully bred mare, and looking around at the suddenly bleach white faces of Banner and Stark, the latter of whom is clutching his Iron Man suitcase with white-knuckled fingers, I feel a little better, knowing that I can actually ride the damn horse, side-saddle or not.

Deep breath in. Dredge up some sympathy from the darkest vestiges of my soul. Deep breath out. "Hey Bruce, would you like some help?"

"Thank you Agent Hill, but I ah…I don't think horse riding is for me. Not so good for the heart rate…maybe I could just follow on behind on foot-" Bruce crosses his arms over his body and turns away from his horse nervously.

"Nonsense. Horse riding is rhythmic, it'll calm you down. Besides, you're on Asgard, home of the Thor-clones. If anyone can handle the Hulk, Asgardians can. Here, I'll help you climb up, and…there we go!" Bruce sits up on his horse, hands visibly shaking, but thankfully there are no signs of green. I'd hate to be stuck on a rather small bridge with the never-ending, soul-sucking void of space on either side with an enraged Hulk. Bye bye Maria Hill.

Fury, meanwhile, is busy taking on the one and only Tony Stark. They've been arguing the entire time I've been helping Bruce, and Fury is slowly but surely losing his temper. Not the best start to a diplomatic visit where he's contentious at the best of times…but never mind.

Stark is still clutching his suitcase and is slowly edging away from the horses. "I've got my suit, I can just fly-"

"You can't just fly Stark, Thor could 'just fly', but he isn't, he's riding the goddamn horse-"

"Yeah well that's Goldilock's decision, I, on the other hand, am not going near that thing," he said, gesturing at his horse, "in a month of Sundays. It's dirty and smelly-"

"Well because we all know you weren't paying a shit's worth of attention in the briefings, I'm here to tell you that it's customary to ride up to the citadel up in this shiny, fancy-ass place, and as a sign of respect for your teammate's traditions, you will get on that damn horse and you will sit there without moaning until we arrive at the goddamn palace or so help me-" Fury growls out. I'm pretty sure he's about two seconds away from stamping his feet and throwing a diva tantrum. Fury does like his diva tantrums.

"Tony." Steve interjects before the billionaire can open his mouth to continue the argument, "Get on the damn horse. We're not here to argue, and it'll probably make Thor happy. Director, please, it's not worth arguing with him. Tony's obstinate at the best of times."

After a quick glance at a painfully excited Thor, Tony droops in defeat and whilst he doesn't stop grumbling about being called obstinate, he does, after a couple of tries that leave me hiding a smile, get on the horse. I follow his lead, and soon everyone is on horseback (albeit two of us are sat side-saddle), with me holding Bruce's reins and Steve holding Tony's.

Riding up the Bifrost is fascinating. Even though I might not be one of the scientists in the group, by god I can still appreciate just how impossible this place is; the impossibilities are everywhere and they're, well, _impossible_ to miss. When we travel over the bridge, the landscape below us changes from the black of the void to a rushing, tumbling, never-ending waterfall that thunders down and down and down into the darkness below. We ride over a sparkling, clear blue ocean and a pristine harbour (which is the only one I've ever been to in my life that doesn't reek of fish. Trust me, for some reason S.H.I.E.L.D missions love happening in disgusting places), through city streets where nearly everything shines and the people look delighted and cheer loudly as we go past, throwing flowers like we're in some kind of Disney movie (which doesn't bear thinking about, but is kind of nice for a very, _very_ brief change).

We pass through giant golden gates the size of skycrapers which are carved with the most intricate designs, stories of creation and battle and peace and woe and hope, with watchtowers either side from where guards in elaborate gold armour stare impassively down at us. I have to admit, I approve of the level of paranoia having this many guards must take; it must be what, 65% of the male population? Although…the fact that every single one of them is male nags at me somewhat, but the feeling is quickly washed away under the pure awe this place inspires. Now I get why Thor is never impressed by Midgard no matter what the Avengers take him to see. Except poptarts. Lord help the Health and Safety official that tries to stop Thor importing poptarts to Asgard. Not even _I_ think bureaucracy is that important.

Eventually, we reach the palace. It's bigger and gaudier and more well-guarded than even the rest of Asgard, and all the gold is making my eyes water it's so bright around here. Yes, we get that you're super rich and powerful, can you quit it with the gold already?

We all dismount from our horses, handing the reigns over to the waiting stable boys who are watching the Crown Prince's odd guests with wide eyes and barely concealed whispers. Subtle, real subtle. Looks like this place might even rival S.H.I.E.L.D for its ability to spread gossip; I give it an hour before the entire city is talking about us.

"Friends." booms Thor, and with his arms held out wide and his form silhouetted with reflected gold light, he really does look like a god from legends. I might even believe it if I hadn't walked in on him holding a burping contest at two in the morning a couple of weeks ago. "Welcome to the Palace of Asgard, home to the All-Father, ruler of the Nine Realms."

I notice Fury's lips twitching silently, and even without hearing the words I know what he's saying. "He ain't no King of my planet." Unfortunately, I have to agree. I don't care who died and made him King of Asgard, and hell, even the rest of the Nine Realms (despite the fact at least two of the other Realms are still at war with Asgard), Odin isn't the king of Earth while we have anything to say about it.

"Thor, you big oaf, it's nice to see you back!" Four figures push their way through the rapidly growing crowd of servants, of whom I guess precisely none have a right to be out here gawking at us. I approve. What? They don't work for me, and lollygagging without actually getting caught shows initiative. As long as you don't work for me, or lollygagging results in serious pain.

The four figures turn out to be three men and one woman, warriors and nobles from the way they are all dressed. Sif and the Warriors Three presumably.

"My friends!" Thor yells excitably, dashing up and attempting to wrap all of them up in one of his bone-crushing hugs. The woman, Sif, dodges, but the men aren't so lucky, which gives me ample time to examine this woman that inspires fear and respect even into Thor when he was at his brashest.

Physically, she's attractive, with long black hair, smooth skin and large eyes. But that's not what I'm interested in. She stands almost defensively, eyes challenging like she's threatening one of us to pick a fight with her. Which, I realise, she is. Being the only female warrior out of the hundreds of men that I've seen must've made her entire life an uphill struggle for respect, probably with men challenging her prowess left, right and centre. It can only be like my rise through S.H.I.E.L.D, except worse. Far, far worse. At least I had a few other women at my back; it looks like she has had no-one.

After fiercely surveying the men, Sif's eyes meet mine, and soften very slightly. I nod faintly, and allow my lips to twitch upwards. She returns the favour, and moves on to stare at Natasha, who repeats the same motions of recognition, warrior to warrior, woman to woman. Looks like we already have another ally here. Girl power anyone?

"Sif, Warriors Three, these are Earth's Mightiest Heroes, the Avengers, and Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill of S.H.I.E.L.D. Friends, this is Sif and the Warriors Three, Fandral, Hogun and Voltstagg, my closest friends and travelling companions."

Nods are exchanged, and both teams size each other up. Bruce gulps nervously from all the tension in the air and Clint cracks his knuckles one by one, looking like he's hoping for some violence. Fury's antics seem to work the best though. He rocks back on his feet, crosses his arms and raises a thoroughly unimpressed eyebrow. Every single Asgardian in the entire courtyard winces, and those of a weaker disposition scamper off at top speed, some not even bothering to cite excuses. Fury must really, _really_ look like Odin. I know Thor's made the comparison more than once, but this is a ridiculous reaction; Odin must be pretty damn scary to get that much of a response at even a mere resemblance of him.

Thor clears his throat, awkwardly stepping between the two teams with his hands raised passively. "Friends, the All-Father is waiting for your audience in the Throne Room. Perhaps we can all make our way there together?"

Everyone turns their attention to Thor and the tension breaks. Silently, we troop after Thor, Fury and I automatically taking the lead and forcing both the mortals and the…not-so-mortal 'mortals' to jockey for position behind us. Thank god for the aura of leadership, it has more benefits than you can probably think of.

It takes us about five minutes to trek through the (gold) palace with its (gold) guards lining every wall, and its (gold) statues and the (gold) tapestries decorating the walls, with (gold) torches in (gold) torch brackets and curious aristocrats that peak their noses around corners or walk past with barely concealed stares, who, you guessed it, are invariably wearing gold.

Calling Asgard 'The Golden Realm' is starting to seem sardonic to me.

Considering the Asgardians have no concept of sarcasm, I'm wondering which inspired race came up with that name. I bet it was the elves of Alfheim. Have I ever met one? No. But Thor has shown us pictures and they look like fellow sass masters to me.

"This is the Throne Room." Thor booms.

"No shit." Fury murmurs as we halt in front of the door that is somehow even more gold than the previous seventy-three million others we've passed through. I can't help but snort quietly. Fury and I might not exactly see eye to eye, but around here it's obvious us humans need to stick together. Or, from the half-curious, half-murderous glares of everyone with a weapon, we'll end up skewered.

The huge doors swing open on silent hinges and we look down the length of a massive hall. And when I say massive, I mean massive. Like the-heli-carrier-before-they-put-the-floors-in massive. Like the-size-of-the-clusterfuck-when-Barton-and-Romanoff-are-left-alone-and-unsupervised-on-a-mission massive. Yeah, _that_ massive.

Thor beckons us forward, and we follow him, albeit slightly hesitantly. Yes, even super scary ex-assassins get intimidated, okay? Shut up.

Then, ever so quietly, Barton starts humming the Space Odyssey theme tune, and the tension breaks apart. The challenge now is not resisting the urge to run screaming from the throne room like it was before, but to resist the urge to crack up laughing. Even the ever-clueless Thor has a tiny smile on his face.

Eventually, and I mean _eventually_, we stop in front of the throne. The five Asgardians kneel with bowed heads and the rest of us poor mortals all nod respectfully.

Odin, unsurprisingly enough, doesn't return the favour. Queen Frigga, on the other hand, dips into a slight curtsy and smiles welcomingly.

And then, he speaks. "Rise, warriors. Midgardians, I formally welcome you to the Eternal Realm of Asgard. Director of Fury and Avengers, we will begin the formalities at the earliest possible stage. But first I must ask," Odin leans down and squints at Natasha and I, "why have you brought your _whores_ into my throne room?"

A long moment passes. Silence falls. Eyes widen. Throats swallow in apprehension.

I hear Natasha take a small step up so that she is by my side. I see the hardness in her green eyes and the annoyed tilt of her jaw. No, not annoyed. Furious.

I suck in an extremely pissed-off breath through my teeth. "_How dare you_." I say in a deadly quiet tone. Knowing from experience what will happen next, Fury shuffles away and the other Avengers follow his example. Smart people. "I am Deputy Director Hill of S.H.I.E.L.D, and this is Agent Romanoff of the Avengers. And you refer to us as _whores_? What right have you to accuse us of that? To accuse anyone, anywhere of that? What business is it of yours anyway? Who do you think you are?"

"I am the All-Father, King of Asgard and Ruler of the-"

"And I'm unimpressed, pleased to meet you. Sexism is not tolerated among my people and you have just demonstrated the highest form of it. Director Fury, I recommend that you and Captain Rogers stay here and begin the diplomatic relations." Fury and Steve, perhaps realising that it's not a good time to disagree, both nod, and Steve snaps a salute. I turn to the so-called Science Bros. "You two, you're going to, politely, ask Thor's friends here for a tour around and an introduction to someone who can explain more to you about the technical and magical sides of Asgard." They both positively gleam with excitement and nod perhaps a tad overenthusiastically to look intimidating anymore. "Barton, you're on scientist watch. Minimal destruction please." The corner of Clint's mouth twitches upwards, and as fast as lightening, he winks. I realise he's enjoying this, Natasha and I working together to tear someone down that's not him. That little shit.

I turn to the lethal assassin by my side. "Natasha, are you ready to take your leave?"

"Of course Deputy Director." Her green eyes sparkle with fury-turned-amusement. "Will you accompany me?"

"Of course. I do not wish to stay where I am undervalued and insulted." Linking arms, we turn and stride as gracefully as we can out of the hall, which is pretty damn gracefully if I do say so myself.

Silence reigns as with the click of high heels we make our way down the long, long room. I can feel eyes burning into my back, and I tilt my chin higher. It's taking most of my self-confidence and a whole lot of courage to do this, but it's worth it. No-one gets away with sexism when I'm around to deal with it. Not even the so-called King of the Nine Realms.

With a slam, the giant gold doors close behind us.

Natasha and I turn to each other with wide eyes and shaky breaths. "Holy shit we just did that."

Natasha extends her hand for me to shake. "Maria, I think you just kicked some proverbial godly ass. Congratulations."

I shake her hand quickly (to minimise the risks of being judo-flipped) and arch an eyebrow. "And I was worried Fury was going to be the one to blow a fuse."

Her lips twitch. I smirk. She grins. A chuckle forces its way past my lips. She giggles behind her hand. I look away, trying to suppress laughter, but can't resist taking a quick peek back. Our eyes meet. We both erupt into laughter.

"I'm sorry to interrupt."

In terrifying synchronisation, Natasha and I both whip around with handguns pointed at the origin of the sound, laughter gone completely and eyes hard and cold. Spies to the core, assassins at heart, and paranoid either way. Wow, that sounds like a tagline from a TV show: Maria and Natasha, out to save the world from sexism and brutally murder all the bad guys in geysers of blood. Not for children.

Queen Frigga doesn't even flinch, although Lady Sif looks ready and willing to take a bullet or two for her Queen. It wouldn't really affect either of them but…well, it's the thought that counts.

"But I was wondering," the Queen continues, as if nothing had just happened, and slowly but surely, Natasha and I holster our guns. "if you would like a…less-biased tour of Asgard. I assure you that it is a most beautiful Realm, full of many natural and crafted wonders. I may be a little enthusiastic, but even after all my years guiding Asgard from behind the throne, I still hold the deepest regard for this land as a foreigner, something which I hope you will be willing to join me in."

I nod gratefully; now this trip would hopefully survive me and my feminist values. Not that I'm apologising for them, no, they are completely and utterly necessary, but even S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't usually screw up diplomatic relations as badly as I just did. Besides, I really don't want to be the one that starts an inter-Realm war with actual _gods_.

That would not look good on my file.

"Thank you very much Your Majesty. Natasha and I will gratefully accept your most gracious offer."

She smiles beatifically, and even Sif looks pleased. "Would you prefer to remain in your current attire or change into Asgardian formal wear?"

"Asgardian formal wear would be most gratefully accepted." Natasha pipes up.

Frigga nods regally and turns gracefully on her heel, beckoning for us to follow her.

I give Natasha a pointed look behind the Queen's back. "What?" she mouths, "I can't make decisions now?"

"Have you seen that stuff?" I mouth back, "It looks like it weighs about five tonnes! And I. Don't. Wear. Dresses."

"Oh c'mon, you're telling me you think the Queen can't kick ass in that dress? It looks plenty battle-worthy to me, and look at the way she walks! She has a warrior's stride."

We reached a room which Sif formally announced to be the palace tailors. Sif announces the three of us, and with proudly raised chins Natasha and I follow Frigga inside.

What we walk in on is not what I was expecting. Women of all ages bustle around madly, fabric flying, metal clanging, hairdressers shouting, aristocrats preening, needles sewing…it's so cacophonous it reminds me of a battlefield.

The second the Queen sets foot in the room, all motion and sound halts, and as one the whole room rises and curtsies deeply. She waves them off graciously, and the whole room bursts back into motion. This is like every war planning room I've ever been in, except it's devoted to fashion. It's…breathtaking. Terrifying, but breathtaking all the same.

A woman hurries up, her skirts swishing behind her, and curtsies deeply, bowing her head respectfully. She has long, shiny brunette hair that is immaculately styled in the fashion of the aristocratic ladies I've noticed wandering around, an attractive if not warm face covered with just enough makeup to perfectly accentuate her features, and a dark purple dress with long skirts that makes her look slim and womanly at the same time. She is a true picture of a courtly Asgardian woman, and appears to be around the age of the queen, though who can really tell with gods?

"Rise Hariasa. Honestly, we have been friends for so many a year that I can barely remember when we met, and yet you still insist on the common courtesies of the like that strangers would pay one another. You are so unlike you're sister Eir that I scarcely would believe you related if I hadn't known you as children."

"Aye my Queen, but Eir shows her respect for yourself and your family through her healing work, whereas I prefer to show mine through my actions. And my sister was ever disgraceful in her behaviour." The woman, Hariasa, turns her head to glare at Sif, her ornately curled and pinned brunette hair bouncing behind her. "Ah, Lady Sif, it is rare that you grace my workplace with your presence."

Sif mumbles something incoherent about the glory of battle and the devils of fashion. A woman after my own heart.

Hariasa sniffs. "Sif, you do try my patience at times. It wouldn't kill you to possess at least one socially acceptable court dress, now would it? Or perhaps have your hair styled while you wait on Her Majesty."

Sif all but rolls her eyes. It's obvious that this is an argument carried out on a regular basis. Probably much the same as the legendary Hawkeye&amp;Hill feud over paperwork, only over thousands of years. I suppress a shudder at the thought; that's just one more reason to thank the universe that I'm not an Asgardian. Never ending arguments with Hawkeye…he could avoid handing in paperwork for hundreds of years. That's the stuff of nightmares right there.

Frigga smoothly interrupts the eternal fashion feud. "Hariasa, might I direct your attention to our guests from Midgard, the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D Lady Maria Hill, and the only female member of the Avengers, the Lady Natasha Romanoff?"

Piercing grey eyes fall on the two of us. "I assume you are here to dress in more court-appropriate clothing?"

Behind her back Sif shakes her head vigorously, but Natasha ignores her. "Thank you Lady Hariasa, that would be most gratefully received. It appears that we never received a message on what we were expected to where, and that led to some… unpleasant assumptions from the men."

Hariasa's demeanour changes from cold to welcoming in a millisecond. "Men, such animals are they not? Do not worry, no men are allowed in here, and we'll have you all looking perfect in no time. Even you, Lady Sif."

The warrior looks ready bolt, and I'm all prepared to follow her, but before I can really register what's happening Hariasa clicks her fingers and we're surrounded by hoards of women wielding dresses, hairbrushes, perfumes and all manner of dangerous looking devices.

I'd give myself a better chance of surviving another attack on New York than this.

I discreetly toss a listening device into a plant pot as I'm herded deeper into the room, Natasha, Sif and Frigga being towed off in different directions. I'm in a chair, my hair ripped from its ponytail with numerous women pulling, plucking and preening my hair, face and neck. I manage to pull off my weapons belt and stuff it under a cushion before I'm yanked to my feet and my catsuit is whipped away, leaving me just wearing my bra and pants. I blush, mortified, but also thanking god that I remembered to put on a matching set of underwear this morning. I never would've seen this coming in a million years.

Still, I retreat as far as I can into the corner of the room, hiding myself behind a decorative screen and wrapping it all the way around me. I don't…all spies have scars. Some internal, some external. I don't like anyone seeing mine.

Hariasa whips one corner of the screen away, tutting loudly. "There's no need to be shy around here, it has rather been the fashion to get changed out in the open these last couple of centuries. We've seen everyone from Her Majesty to visiting dignitaries with anatomy that you can't even comprehend baring themselves shamelessly in these rooms. Anything anyone sees, they'll just assume it's something every Midgardian woman possesses. Very few aristocratic ladies ever see fit to properly educate themselves these days, you've nothing to fear; they probably think those weapon sheaths on your thighs are natural parts of you. And how do you like purple?"

"Um…purple's good I guess." I say, blinking rapidly at the seemingly random change in the topic of conversation.

Hariasa frowns and throws a beautifully embroidered purple gown over the screen almost carelessly. "What about red?"

The gown is gorgeous, I'll admit it, a blood red colour with elbow-length sleeves, a fitted bodice and a panel cut away down both sides of the skirt to reveal a silky gold fabric. There's only one problem however. The dress is _blood_ red.

The Asgardian tailor must have seen the look on my face of 'I hate it but how do I say that politely'. "The colour I assume. Lady Sif also dislikes the colour. It holds unpleasant memories for many warriors; few understand how Thor can bear to wear a cape of such a colour as that."

The final dress she is carrying is very dark blue, with a silver decorative armour piece across the chest and matching vambraces, both covered with intricate carvings of birds in flight. No, not birds. Eagles. S.H.I.E.L.D eagles. The back of the dress is modestly cut, but the long flowing skirt has a silver eagle design splayed across it. I think I'm in love.

Hariasa smiles. "I can see that you like it. Here, let us try it on, and then you can examine yourself in the looking glass before we re-present you to the court."

She helps me step into the dress, flitting around and fixing stray fixings and ribbons, pulling pins from the sash across her chest (which reminds me strangely of my weapons belt) to style my hair, pinning it up tight enough to stay but not so tight that it hurts.

"And I thought you might desire this back on your person." Hariasa pulls out my weapons belt from seemingly nowhere, winks, and helps me affix it low enough on my hips that it doesn't affect the flow of the dress. I have true respect for this woman, and I think that if we ever met on a battlefield, everyone there would be in danger, highly trained assassins or not. I wonder if she knows the trick to killing someone with a lipstick…

The seamstress takes my hand and gently tugs me out from behind the screen and in front of a mirror, and I swear I'm not usually self-conceited but I gasp. The dress falls perfectly, swooping over my hips and filling out the curves I never usually have, the decorative armour giving the dress an element of badassery and the silver eagles let me pretend that the dress is strictly business. It is the most perfect dress I've ever seen.

Sif marches over, her face twisted in a scowl with her breastplate missing and a white cloak draped over her shoulders. A pair of flat silver sandals dangle from her fingers, and Hariasa's assistants trail after her with curlers, pins, makeup and murderous expressions. "I see that you were overwhelmed by Hariasa's attentions. I suppose I could say you look glamorous, though I much preferred your more practical attire. Here." She thrusts the silver sandals at my chest, ignoring the horrified expressions of the women around us. "Put these on. I'm pretty sure they will match your outfit and then you'll actually be able to run or fight if you have to, unlike with whatever high-heeled death traps Lady Hariasa will attempt to force you into."

"Thank you Lady Sif. I'm afraid to admit I rather share your dislike for heels." Lies. Such lies. I love heels. However, the seven inchers the ladies all appear to be wearing around here just might kill me, and since I'm technically in enemy territory, wearing these flats will both enamour me to Sif and allow me to haul ass if I need to. Double bonus.

I slip them on and meet Sif's approving nod with one of my own. Much as I feel a tiny smidgen of regret at Hariasa's disappointed look, she is a seamstress, whereas Sif very much seems to be the Queen's strong right hand. And since I majorly pissed off the King already, I'm going to need to stay on the good side of Queen Frigga, which means getting along with Sif. Both of them seem like my kind of person, so it shouldn't be too hard for us to stay friends.

Natasha glides over, her deep green dress billowing behind her and gold jewellery glinting around her neck. "Eagles Maria," she grins, delicately tucking a loosely curled lock of red hair behind her ear, "really. Can you ever leave work behind?"

"We're on a diplomatic mission and I thought that I should continue to represent out Realm wherever possible." I say stiffly, my spine straightening. I have an inherent dislike of my decisions being questioned, I just can't help it.

Natasha, being the spy she is, sees my change in posture immediately. "Chill Hill, I'm joking. You look gorgeous; people will be fainting left, right and centre."

I raise an eyebrow. "Chill Hill? By god, you've been spending far too much time with Barton."

Her green eyes, the colour perfectly enhanced by her dress, widen in mock horror. "I've been partners with that scoundrel for eight years. Oh the horror."

Sif steps forward to join in the conversation as servants flutter around Natasha and I, wielding makeup and professionally applying it in just the right amounts so that it is flattering rather than annoying. Sif irritably waves them off. "Partnered for eight years Lady Natasha? I hate to think about it, but I have fought at Thor's side in true battle for almost four hundred years." Something flashes behind her dark eyes, but she blinks and it disappears. A bad memory I would guess. She smiles again but now there are the faintest signs of strain around the edges.

Queen Frigga floats over, beaming benevolently, breaking the slight pause in conversation. "Ladies, you all look wonderful. You all do your respective Realms a great service with the pleasure of your appearances." She looks meaningfully at Sif, who huffs disbelievingly. "Still, a lady's appearance tends to be the least of her attributes. Shall we walk and discuss more pressing matters without the…_input_ of our men?"

"I'm sure we will enjoy that immensely Your Majesty. Sif, please lead the way to the royal gardens."

"Aye my Queen."

We appear to naturally fall into pairs, Natasha gliding ahead with Sif and me staying back to accompany Frigga, but in reality it is a result of some subtle hand signals between the two of us. I listen to Natasha quietly start a conversation about fighting tactics with Sif before Frigga begins to speak.

"I would like to extend my deepest and most heartfelt apologies for my husband's disgraceful words towards the two of you, and for any wrongs either of my sons have done unto your Realm. I am afraid you will receive no apology from any of them, the men of my family were ever stubborn." Her expression is sincere and I can tell her words are too.

"Apology accepted Queen Frigga. None of that was by any means your fault. And..." I take a deep breath, weighing up the risks of saying this with Natasha in hearing distance, but I decide that the Black Widow can handle views that oppose hers. "I don't entirely believe that your second son's attack on Earth was completely his fault."

Frigga looks sadly down at her folded hands. "I fear you say this but to placate me. I am sure Thor has relayed my theories to you concerning the Mad Titan, though he dismisses them as a mother's folly."

I stay silent for a moment, considering my words carefully. "I don't know whether Loki had good reason to do what he did, as Thor will explain nothing to us beyond 'He is adopted'. However, something about it always felt off to me; Loki's plan was far too clumsy and haphazard for a man of such obvious intelligence, and from what Thor has related of their younger years, Loki was quite the patient tactician. His plan didn't suit him at all. I don't know whether there was an outside force controlling him as you believe, but the events certainly don't add up."

"I thank you for your kind words, it is nice to know that someone on Midguard does not hold my youngest in such low esteem as the rest. But I must inquire as to the colour of my son's eyes when he attacked your world, I fear it is of grave importance."

"They were blue." I say, rather confused. "A cold, empty, icy blue."

Frigga looks at me sadly, no trace of triumph in her eyes. "Loki's eyes are green."

My mind reels with that information. Loki had green eyes, but I can describe the madness in those blue orbs with unerring accuracy. I had had enough nightmares about them when I thought Coulson was really dead to know that much. But blue eyes, unnaturally blue eyes, the same colour as Barton's turned when he was possessed by the staff...I really don't know what to think.

I have an ominous feeling that the information I had just received is going to be _extremely_ important in the battles to come; it's making my spine itch. But if I know one thing, it'd that now isn't the time to dwell on such a thing, so I file the information away for later examination, and promptly put it out of my mind.

Now I have one, unfortunate issue. Even I don't know how to restart a conversation after that kind of awkwardness.

Thankfully, my comm beeping softly gives me a reason to ask the Queen to excuse me. She nods gracefully, and I turn away, pressing a hand to my ear and already slipping back into mission mode. "Hill."

The sound of panting fills my ear. "Barton." the man himself barks out sharply, and the clang of weapons meeting echoes down the line. "This is FUBAR BUNDY Hill." he forces out between grunts and sharp intakes of breath. This does not sound like building bridges with Asgard to me.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snarl, "You're supposed to be on scientist watch, not...doing whatever the hell you're doing."

"On your left Stark!" he yells, the faint sound of repulsion fire in the background. Both Natasha and Sif turn around at my raised voice, and when Romanoff cottons on after a split second she too excuses herself and switches on her comm. "Some Asgardian prick thought that..." Barton pauses for a second, from the sounds of it concentrating on kicking the crap out of someone, before he continues, "thought that it would be real funny to tell me that a bow is a coward's weapon. I was gonna ignore it..." he grunts, snarls, and then continues again, "but he got all up in my face and tried to grab Jodie from my back, and, well, _nobody touches my bow_!" He yells the last bit, and I get the feeling that he's not just talking to us. "So I started a fight, I won the fight and then all his mates, like all fifty of them by this point, off-duty guards if I had to guess, pile in too! Stark so wasn't having that, unfair odds and all, so he put on the suit and...hey Stark! I think that's the last of them!"

I take a deep breath and massage my temples. I knew this wasn't going to be easy, but this is...actually, it's not as bad as I had expected. Yet. "Barton, what's Banner's status." Please don't say Hulk, please don't say Hulk...

"Banner? He's fine, I think he's hiding inside a couple of metres away behind some pillars inside." He raises his voice. "Hey Bruce, you can come out now, we're all good over here!"

There is an incoherent muttering before another comm comes online. "Hello?"

We all breathe a sigh of relief. "Bruce, how are you feeling?" Natasha asks.

"I'm fine, no need to worry, there's no sign of the Other Guy. I was prepared to jump in and help out, but Tony and Clint handled it fine." Bruce sounds calm, even though he must be surrounded by fifty unconscious or agonised Asgardians, which is enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

Barton makes a nonchalant sound. "Pfft, it was nothing. They were nowhere near as good as Thor, and besides, _I_ spar with _Natasha_. I guess Stark was pretty helpful too, but I could've handled it by myself if I had to. Besides, you know what they say: the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And these guys were pretty fucking massive. They fell so hard some of them might not be getting up for the next week." There is an ominous pause. "So Hill..." Barton starts and then trails off.

"Yes Barton?" I reply, forcing as much calm as humanely possible into my voice. I have to give credit where it's due, if I had Bruce's anger management issues we probably wouldn't have much of a planet left for Asgard to forge relations with. Just my general, day in day out annoyance with Clint could probably flatten most of South America. Minimum.

"So uh, which quarter are we facing certain and imminent death from? You? Or the Asgardians. Tony says to tell Thor that if we die on this stupid trip then Jarvis will make sure Thor never sees another poptart in his immortal life."

"Well isn't that an impressive threat for us all to cower in awe from." I murmur as passively as I can manage. Instead of giving Barton the rollicking he deserves, I turn to the Queen. "Your Majesty, if, hypothetically of course, one or two of the Avengers had taken down fifty or so of your off-duty guards, what should we expect to happen?"

"Well," she smiles, her eyes dancing with mischief and all traces of the bereaved mother from earlier gone, "the guards involved would be punished for most likely provoking and attacking our most honoured guests, and the Avengers would be lauded as even greater warriors than we already know them to be and would most probably have a huge feast thrown in their honour. Hypothetically of course."

We share a look that just speaks volumes about the infinite stupidity of men. "Thank you All Mother." I return to the open comm line. "Well Barton, looks like Asgard might be putting on a feast in your honour. Let's just hope you live long enough to see it."

"Is that a threat I'm hearing Hill?" Barton exclaims in mock horror.

"You can take it whichever way you like. But know this," my eyes narrow, "I am not happy." I hang up the call right then and there, because I can just feel Stark gearing up to jump into the argument and I'm really not in the mood for the Avengers' trivial bickering.

The rest of the day passed pretty quickly, without _too_ many incidents. Romanoff nearly gutted a merchant when he insinuated she might need help getting her man into bed, Rogers nearly decked Fandral for some, _ahem_, insalubrious comments, Fury nearly had a diva strop because Odin kept insisting he was King of all the Nine Realms (he's no king of mine!), Tony nearly had a fit when the Asgardians refused to explain their technology beyond 'it's highly advanced magic, no Midgardian would understand', and well, you already know what I got up to. The only person who actually didn't lose their rag was Bruce, who spent a very pleasant day talking about different medical practices with the Asgardian Healer Eir. All in all, considering that Asgard was still standing and I managed to plant a whole host of spy devices all over the palace and its grounds, I think we did pretty well.

You know something's wrong with your life when not destroying your host's home is doing 'pretty well'.

On the upside, we're all alive, the Asgardians are all alive (even if quite a few of them have been left with an overwhelming fear of bows) and the look on Abi's face when I patched her into the multitude of flawless video recordings courtesy of my little spying devices was priceless. Well, not _priceless _exactly, I sold a snapshot of Abi's reaction to Coulson to put in his Scrapbook of Infamy for a couple of hundred dollars and a donut, but you get my point. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

Still, I've got my mission day with Coulson next week, which I'm really looking forward to. Hopefully it will be like the good old days. Except, y'know, with a few less holy-crap-I-almost-died-and-you-almost-died-and-the-world-almost-blew-up episodes.

I just voodoo'd myself didn't I?

Coulson is so going to kill me.

**_Did ya like it? Did ya? It was 21 pages, and between this and NaNoWriMo I'm almost dead. But I got it out here! AND I WON NANOWRIMO ARE YOU IMPRESSED HOLY SHIT CUZ I AM!_**

**_My glorious beta run-robin-run said I needed to add more foreshadowing to the bit about Loki's eyes so…FORESHADOWING RIGHT HERE PEOPLE PAY ATTENTION!_**

**_Also the Demonic Cat pointed out that I've been spelling Midgard as 'Midguard' (the woman has the eye of a hawk!) so thanks to her too!_**

**_Review?_**

_**xx**_


	5. I Swear It's Voodoo

**_LET'S DO THIS! IT'S 24 PAGES SO MAKE SURE YOU'VE BEEN FOR A PEE AND HAVE A NICE DRINK AND A COMFY SEAT BECAUSE HOLY CRAP _**

When the world set on fire, I couldn't say I was surprised.

Maybe I should backtrack a bit.

6am rolls around, and I'm already up and doing paperwork. Believe me, I've only been up for half an hour, which is practically a lie-in for me, so I'm not really bothered. And, as a bonus, I'm still in bed. In my pyjamas. Snuggled under my duvet. You think your floors are cold when you get out of bed? Try the cold metal floors of the heli-carrier, agents have been hospitalised with frostbite for walking around barefoot before. I'm not joking.

My tablet dings with an important message alert, the sound ringing unpleasantly round the room, and I pull it onto my lap with a concerned frown. Alien invasion? Supervillian attack? The Avengers finally self-destructing? Any of these could be reported by an important message where S.H.I.E.L.D is concerned. And believe me, all three have happened more than once, and all three herald the arrival of a serious amount of paperwork.

Thankfully, it's neither of those three. The message simply reads 'Mission accomplished. Get kicking ass Hill.' It's jointly signed by Agent Yousif and Barton, and although _technically_ I had personally approved their latest mission together, I'd been praying that I would _live_ to regret approving it, considering what happened on their last mission together. But that's a story for another time. All you need to know is that it involved Phoenix (a legendary British mercenary and Yousif's villainous counterpart/arch nemesis/best friend), about fifty pink glitter bombs, six rolls of duct tape, three hundred litres of pure Russian vodka and half the Slovakian government.

Yeah, that was a fun one. I'd sworn never again, but somehow they'd wrangled me into it by-

Well, that doesn't matter now. All that matters is that they did it, and now comes the good part: I get to go on my much long-awaited mission with Coulson! I have to admit it, an embarrassing squeak of excitement escapes me and I do a little happy dance around my room, hopping quickly off the metal floors and onto a rug as the cold sears my feet. No-one must ever know that I squeaked like a recruit meeting Romanoff before coffee. Silence or death people, you've been warned.

When I've gotten dressed, I check the back of my wardrobe for Coulson's secret passage. So I'll admit it, I'm curious, (how did he even manage to make a passage through both our wardrobes without me noticing anyway?), and I want to scare him awake. Annoyingly enough I can't find any sign of the passage, because unfortunately, Coulson is just that good.

Perhaps I should explain something while I actually have a spare minute. At S.H.I.E.L.D we spilt most missions into three parts to stop one idiot, bad penny or traitor screwing up a whole mission. It means more paperwork, but it's worth it to keep our agents and our organisation safe. The first part is surveillance, which, though dependant on how dangerous the target is, usually goes to rookies. The second part, if we need specific information on the target(s), is infiltration, seduction or just plain old breaking in, whichever is fastest and safer. That's what Barton and Raven just handled, hopefully with minimum damage and minimum suspicion raised (although with those two I somehow doubt it), so now we can get onto stage three. The take down.

Coulson and I were always good at take downs.

Trust me on this one. There have been four Strike Teams in S.H.I.E.L.D's history. The first, Strike Team Alpha, was posthumously awarded to Captain Steve Rogers and Lieutenant James Barnes for exemplary services to the greater good (although is it still posthumous if they're both still technically alive?), and the second was given to Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos for services to the founding of S.H.I.E.L.D. Strike Team Gamma was awarded to Coulson and I after the-mission-that-shall-remain-unnamed, and Strike Team Delta is obviously Barton and Romanoff. It feels nice to be in such elite ranks, special even.

So yeah, Coulson and I are a lot more dangerous than we look. And considering half the time we look like out a stressed out office worker and a kindly school teacher, that's probably not that hard. Whatever, you get the idea.

Kneeling on the metal floor of my bedroom, I cautiously reach under my bed with my knees burning and protesting heartily from the cold, searching with my fingers for the keypad and fingerprint scanner that I know is there. I find it, put my thumb on the scanner, blink as a needle takes a sample of my blood, type in the onerously long password and reverently lift out the contents of the large safe.

The first thing that I turn my attention to is my sniper rifle. I love my old rifle with all my tiny little shrivelled up heart; if there's anything in the world I'm sentimental about it's this old thing. It's in utterly perfect condition, the gleaming black metal practically blinding me with my own smile, and it's probably killed more people than you've ever shaken hands with. You could even say I love it just as much as Barton loves his bow, although at least _I_ haven't named an inanimate object.

I sling my rifle across my back and start pulling out some of my other hidden objects. Two small, black, unassuming little spheres roll across my lap before I hastily secure them to my belt. Pulse bombs. Want to cause absolute chaos with a smoke bomb, a flash bomb and energy pulse all in one? Pulse bombs are your new best friend. A lipstick taser and a mascara laser come next, and disappear into two different pockets, followed by a set of specialist lock picks that go under a patch of camo foil on my forearm. It never hurts to be prepared.

"Oh Mariaaaaaa!" comes a sing song voice from somewhere inside my quarters that I can't help but recognise immediately.

Okay, I seriously need to find out how he keeps doing that.

"Phil, don't sing, it makes you sound excited." I drawl with a considerable amount of sarcasm, biting my lip to hide a blossoming smile. I can't help it, it's impossible not to smile when Phil Coulson is happy, he's just too adorable.

"Oh but Maria, didn't you get the message?" Coulson all but skips around the corner, coming to a rest leaning on my bedroom door, looking extremely smug, and even smugger when he notices the assortment of weapons scattered around me.

I roll my eyes. "Yes Phil, I got the message, as you can probably tell from the excess of very dangerous weaponry."

"C'mon Maria, we're the only people here, you can admit you're excited. I don't think you're a hard ass anyway, it won't ruin your carefully cultivated image."

I clap a hand to my chest in mock horror. "You don't think I'm a hard ass? Phil Coulson I am shocked and horrified and quite honestly extremely offended."

He grins widely, mischief lighting up his eyes. "Yeah, but I remember the time you cried over doughnuts so…"

I cross my arms and pout up at him sulkily. "It was midnight and I was sugar deprived and I was on my period and, oh, we were all pretty sure that _you were dead_ until you showed up with a box of doughnuts like 'Miss me?'. You're lucky I didn't jump out of that hospital bed and kill you, you nonchalant bastard. To be perfectly honest I would've if I hadn't had two broken legs, and even that nearly didn't stop me."

He strides over and offers me his hand, grinning at me with even more blinding force as I take it and let him pull me to my feet. "Just because I know that deep down inside you're an adorable, squishy, emotional teddy bear, doesn't mean I'm stupid enough not to be frightened to death of you."

"And just because I know that you _act_ like you're an adorable, squishy, emotional teddy bear, doesn't mean that _I'm_ stupid enough to think that you're not a badass, scary as hell, lethal as fuck agent of S.H.I.E.L.D that could frighten anyone to death if you tried."

Phil pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. "Oh Maria, you do flatter me."

I roll my eyes but allow myself to smirk slightly. "Please, I saw you nail Barton on the back of his head with a file from five storeys and a couple of hundred feet away. I know I'm not exaggerating."

"I'd return the favour by mentioning one of the extremely badass things I've witnessed you do over the years, except badass is your permanent state of being and there are really too many to choose from." Phil shrugs and casually links his arm through mine, using the contact to tug me towards the door. "Come _on_ Maria, I'm going to die of old age before we get out on this stupid mission at this point."

"So Old Man, have you read the mission documents yet?" My valiant attempt to keep my expression composed and haughty fails when Phil whips his head around to stare at me.

"Old Man? I'll have you know I'm only…shit. When did I even get that old? Am I going grey? Do you think my joints are going to start going? When is S.H.I.E.L.D's retirement age? Do you think I'm going to develop narcolepsy? Although that could be a useful excuse in meetings…" Phil's tone turns from genuine worry to pure sarcasm about half way through his questioning, and my smirk turns into a full blown smile almost against my will.

"Mission document?" I reiterate, watching several junior agents scatter out of our way with wide eyes at the sight of a smile on my face. Usually the only time I smile is when I have something particularly evil planned, and S.H.I.E.L.D has long since learned never to get in the way of senior agents when they've got murder in their eyes. After all, no-one wants to end up as collateral damage, it's not a fun thing to have written on your gravestone.

"Yes Hill, I've read the mission document I'm sure you very lovingly prepared, I spend enough time telling Romanoff and Barton off for not reading the damnable things and getting in trouble because of it to know better than that. Besides, after a few months of dealing with Stark's '_attack'_ plans," the word is completed with a sarcastic eye roll that speaks volumes about Phil's opinions of those not-plans, "I'm dying to have a proper, well-documented plan that people actually follow and where everything goes right."

We both miss a step in the middle of the corridor, and exchange a meaning-laden glance. "Did I really just…" Phil trails off in mild horror before face-palming heavily.

"Don't worry about it, I already accidentally voodoo'd us, we were screwed from the start anyway." I shrug, trying for nonchalant and falling way short under Phil's really-Maria-now-I-know-we're-both-idiots glare.

"Looks like we're both out of practice, rookie mistakes like tempting fate and all."

"We could probably find some way to blame Fury for that one." I muse quietly as we continue walking through the corridors of the heli-carrier. Seriously, why are we even going the long way around? I side-eye Phil and ask him with a raised eyebrow, but he only give me a look that plainly reads be-patient-you-overly-impatient-human-being. And I guess there's no way to argue with that.

"We could probably blame Fury for anything and everything though, let's be honest. The Avengers not handing in paperwork? Fury put them together. Sitwell taking the last of the doughnuts? Fury was the one that promoted him. I get brought back from the dead? Fury revived the T.A.H.I.T.I project. That time that Barton died and then came back, and then died again before it turned out he was a robot? Fury put him up to it."

I look at Coulson with honest surprise. "That was Fury's fault? I thought the World Security Council put Barton up to it, and when Romanoff threatened to hunt them all down and murder their families if they did that again they finally realised not to plan missions around me?"

"Bitter, who you?" Phil chuckles under his breath.

"I'm not bitter!" I scowl bitterly, with a bitter expression. "Besides, you know I'm right, they didn't consult me about one mission and look how that turned out! We lost Barton twice, Romanoff nearly went insane, 13 was practically spitting fire, Raven started the unofficial We Hate The Council club (which basically everyone is a member of), Sitwell had to do my job for three days and managed to royally fuck everything up, you, Fury and I had no idea what the hell was going on and Deadpool stole a Quinjet! A motherfucking quinjet! Dammit Coulson those things are expensive!"

"That was, as your buddies in the Marines would say, TARFU, but…ah, here it is, the reason we came the long way around." Phil points at the wall across the hallway with a resigned smile.

Well speak of the motherfucking devil. "Deadpool." I half snarl, half sigh, hands immediately gravitating to my hips in the ultimate I'm-so-not-impressed expression, one eyebrow reaching near stratospheric heights.

The wall in front of me is dripping with red, black and white paint in the classic Deadpool-was-here symbol, the black circle, the red outline and the white eyes that perfectly represent his mask. Breaking out of S.H.I.E.L.D custody is one thing (we barely put any effort into containing him anymore) but leaving this…this _thing_ on my walls is just going a step too far.

"Status report, where is this sonuvabitch and how many agents can I have on site to put the maximum amount of bullets in him."

"Defacing S.H.I.E.L.D property always did make you mad." Phil murmurs under his breath, but he quickly gets down to business. "I put Agents Desai and Silvester Williams on his escort detail as a punishment for getting distracted on their last mission, except it doesn't seem like that improved their concentration at all. Not that Deadpool wasn't going to escape anyway, but how the hell did he get his hands on _paint_? The two of them must have done something stupid, so yeah, they're in trouble."

"Desai and Silvester Williams…" I quickly scan through my memories for the identities of the duo. "Oh, part of Raven's pet team?"

"Do you remember the Silver Queen incident?" I nod, and Phil cocks his head in insinuation.

"No, they were involved in that?" I gasp, actually surprised. "I'm still mad at you for covering that up by the way, I get that you were protecting your agents and you probably had an excellent reason, but I hate not knowing the shit that happens in my own damn organisation."

"Involved in the Silver Queen incident?" Phil smirks. "Maria, they _were_ the damn incident."

Suddenly, two agents that stand out among all the others appear around the corner. Not because they're particularly special in appearance, but because they're lugging a giant tin bath filled to the brim with water behind them, and even at S.H.I.E.L.D that's not a regular occurrence.

As they get closer I can here them bickering quietly, though not as I expected about whose fault it was or who's going to clear up the mess or even who's going to explain to Management what the hell happened. They're arguing about…dyeing their hair?

"C'mon, red dip dye would look great." says the shorter Asian agent with long black hair that is also dip-dyed red, blinking heavily after a small wave of water rushes over the edge of the bucket to slap her in the face, the corners of her eyeliner dripping slightly like a very well made-up crying clown.

"It'd look like I'd copied you, that's what it'd look like." the taller one with purple coloured hair snipes back, hazel eyes narrowed in mock disdain.

Phil moves his head closer to mine. "Agent Desai," he murmurs, pointing at the smaller Asian woman, "and Agent Silvester Williams." he gestures to the taller woman, with an exerted flush over her high, pale cheekbones. "And both of them are still distracted. This is becoming a bit of a theme."

I raise a fist to my lips and let out a sharp, pointed cough. Both agents immediately snap around, and their eyes widen simultaneously.

"Oh, uh, Agent Hill." Desai stutters, curling one piece of hair around her finger in what must be a nervous tick.

"And Agent C-Coulson." Silvester Williams' eyes flick from me to Phil with impressive speed. "We were just, um…"

"Covering my floors with water and making a bigger mess than you have already?" I snap, crossing my arms and glaring at them murderously. Really, with Deadpool's symbol dripping down the wall next to me it isn't hard to work up the anger.

Next to me, Phil gives them the patented I-believed-in-you-and-you-disappointed-me-how-could-you look, and under the combined assault of pissed and deeply saddened the duo wince.

"Agent Hill, I hardly think that's fair-" starts Silvester Williams, before her more situationally aware partner elbows her hard in the ribs. At least one of them has a sense of self preservation.

"What my partner means to say is-" Desai begins to say, an apologetic twist to her features and a soothing tone to her voice, before a cackle rings out from the vents. All four of us look up so fast we nearly suffer from whiplash, only to see a fleeting flash of red through the vents. Deadpool.

_Hell yeah, I'm just that good. Avoiding S.H.I.E.L.D like a pro…although it's getting pretty easy to avoid you guys…maybe you aren't as hardcore as you like to pretend._

_Fuck off Wilson, I'm trying to tell a story here._

_But Hiiiiiiillllllll…_

_That's Deputy Director Hill to you, idiot. You've had _two_ cameos so far, you should be grateful._

_Yeah but the last one was lame and in the past tense so I couldn't comment and-_

_You'll get another chapter at some point._

_Really? Omigosh are you serious? Ooh, maybe with Spidey or Wolvey or-_

_But you're not first priority. Now shove off because I'm about to set my agents on you._

_*sarcastic salute*_

I turn to the two young agents, who were still stood there looking gormlessly at the ceiling. "Well?" I snap, jolting them out of their stupor, "What are you waiting for? If you can run Deadpool off the premises with no causalities and no major property damage, _and_ you clean this mess off the wall before I get back, I won't send you two to the Arctic base for six months. So I suggest you get going."

The two agents exchanged determined looks, before dashing over to just below the vent. Silvester Williams gave her dainty partner a boost up into the air, both the agent and her masses of hair quickly disappearing into depths of S.H.I.E.L.D's extremely extensive ventilation system. The last thing we saw of Agent Desai was a Cheshire Cat grin looming from the darkness, and her partner disappeared in a helter-skelter dash of purple hair down the hallway, agents calming moving out of her way because at S.H.I.E.L.D people running through the corridors as if their ass in on fire _is_ an everyday occurrence. Sometimes literally (thanks Johnny Storm for bringing that expression to life. No really, thanks. Sitwell was being more annoying than usual that day and he certainly learnt a lesson).

"Did you just send two of my up and coming, albeit easily distracted agents on a suicide mission?" Phil frowns at me, a mock disappointed pout pulling at his lips.

"No, I told them to get Deadpool out of here, not to _stop_ him. Because Deadpool is rather unstoppable, as much as we like to pretend otherwise, and stopping him would be a suicide mission for anyone without superpowers. Whereas running him off the premises tends to involve bribing him with pancakes."

"And that is why," Phil announces with a grin, "we made sure the cafeteria makes pancakes everyday by making it a regulation in the handbook."

"No, _you_ made up that rule because you had to stop 16 year old Barton sneaking off to IHOP everyday for pancakes when he was supposed to be completing his advanced training. I still think we shouldn't have passed him."

"And I still say that breaking out of S.H.I.E.L.D at 16 years of age, whether the motive was pancakes or industrial espionage, proves that he deserved to pass his training, whether he's still incapable of filling in paperwork or not." With one last glare at the paint-covered wall, we start moving towards the flight deck again. "And I think you should probably give Parker a heads up that Deadpool is back out, and is probably on his way to continue his daily harassment of the kid. He sure does know how to pick his enemies."

"As long as Deadpool doesn't jump off the flight deck again without a parachute and end up as a grease spot on the New York pavements, I really don't care who he ends up harassing." I attempt to hold firm but quickly crumble under Phil's I'm-disappointed-in-your-complete-lack-of-empathy-even-when-it's-approriate look. "Fine, fine, I know we're not over New York, I was just enjoying complaining." Phil continues to give me a look that could probably make Batman tremble in his little black boots. I only hold out for maybe two minutes, which is probably a new world record, believe me. "Alright, fine! I'll call Parker, Jesus, calm your glare, I get it. Defend the kid's youth and innocence from Wilson's dirty mind…dammit Phil, I'm making the call, I'm making it! Stop glaring already!"

He only relents when I pull out my tablet and tap in the SpiderIdiot option. I do it grudgingly, but I do it. I might be pretty scary, but no-one survives Phil Coulson. He'll love you into guilty submission. Trust me.

The call goes through, and we start getting some weird noises from Spiderman's comm. "Parker?" I hiss. Phil is muffling giggles off to my left, but I don't quite get why. "Parker, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, get somewhere private and answer the goddamn comm, this is important."

"Mmm, MJ, mmm, hold on a sec, I gotta get this."

I gag when realisation finally hits. "Oh god, are they snogging?! Ew, this is why I don't work with teenagers. And why there's a no-relationships within S.H.I.E.L.D rule. And why there's a rule about eating each other's faces within a 10-foot range of me. Because it's gross. And unsanitary. And it's not something I want to see, _or_ hear." I throw the tablet in Phil's direction like its contagious, nose crinkling with real disgust. "Here, you deal with it…him…them."

With a smirk that is far too amused, Phil easily catches the tablet. "Parker?"

"Uh, Coulson, hey. You didn't…hear anything, did you?"

Phil's mirth-filled eyes say he's dying to burst out laughing, but his voice stays perfectly even and calm. "No, I didn't _hear_ _anything_. I'm calling to tell you that Deadpool is probably heading your way."

Parker sighs in obvious frustration, most likely running his hands through his permanently ruffled hair. "You let him escape _again_? What use are you people? You can't even stop one guy leaving your super-secret base for two months?"

"What would you rather," Phil snaps, "we let undertrained, unprepared agents get themselves killed trying to stop an unstoppable man, or take high level agents away from their jobs and let the rest of the world implode to make your life easier? Believe me, if there was something we could do, we would be doing it, but until Barton and Romanoff voluntarily retire to babysit Deadpool full time, _you_ will just have to interrupt your love life to deal with him!"

I can feel Parker's grimace when reality hits through the thousands of miles that separate us. "You heard…_that_, didn't you." There's a muffled sound that I assume is Mary Jane Watson dying of embarrassment. Poor kid, but an intelligent girl like her should know better than to get, ahem, _tangled_ up with superheroes.

"Yes," Phil answers, amusement finally seeping through his I'm-a-very-serious-and-stern-senior-agent tone of voice, "_we_ did."

"WE?!" comes a twin chorus of horror.

Phil grinned wickedly. "Agent Hill and I are very unimpressed." And with a swipe of his hand he cuts of the strangled shouts of one teenage superhero and his undoubtedly extremely embarrassed girlfriend.

"Well," I say, a small grin creeping onto my face, "neither of them are going to be able to look either of us in the eyes again. I think I smell blackmail material."

Phil rolls his eyes, but he's biting back a wide smile. "If you're done terrifying the teenagers of the world, we have a mission to go on."

There's a short pause.

"So how much are we betting we're gonna die again?"

(*I*I*I*)

Rooftops are cold. It sounds obvious, but if you're ever planning to become a spy, it's something you're going to find out sooner rather than later. Also, don't believe your partner when he says the warmth of friendship will stop you freezing your ass off.

I really wish I'd brought that extra parka.

We're lying on our backs on a rooftop in Novosibirsk (yes, that's a real place and not me bashing someone's head in with the keyboard), reclining just as much to look at the stars as to avoid being seen from below. Small pieces of gravel dig into my back, my rifle is a cold metal presence on one side and Phil is a warm one on the other. I feel like I'm going to lose my nose to frostbite, maybe my fingers too, and we've got at least another hour and a half to go before the target shows up outside this warehouse. Just like old times…except that nothing's gone wrong. Yet.

I'm still waiting.

"So," Phil breaks the silence, murmuring instead of whispering as it's much quieter which anyone with any training at all whatsoever will know, "Batman or Sherlock?"

"No."

"Aw c'mon Maria, you can let out your inner nerd, there's no-one around to judge, except me, who is far too much of a nerd to be judging anyone." I can feel Phil's shit-eating grin without even looking at him; I certainly know where Barton gets it from. Like practically-adopted-father, like practically-adopted-son.

"I could just about put up with you fangirling over Captain America considering that he was your childhood hero and he saved both your granddads and your grandmother etc. etc, and I get now he's reincarnated himself as a not-zombie it's a little weird for you to spend most of your free time fawning over him, but that does _not_ mean I have to listen as you transfer your inner nerd onto fictional characters! I get enough of that from Barton on missions."

"You've been on a total of maybe 7 missions with Clint in the 13 years you've worked together." There is a slight tone of exasperation in his voice. Me not getting on with his agents is one of his pet hates. My response has always been that his agents not doing their paperwork is one of _my_ pet hates. So there.

"And that was 7 missions too many. Besides, it's not the mission that's the killer with Barton, it's his goddamn paperwork."

Now I can _hear_ Phil rolling his eyes. He turns on his side so he can look me in the face and give me a look. "We are not here to talk about paperwork Maria. This is supposed to be a holiday, not let's-moan-to-Phil-about-paperwork hour."

"Most people," I pat my rifle, "don't kill people on their holidays."

"We," Phil gestures between the two of us, "are not normal people. Speaking of which, do you want a Pepsi or a Coke?"

"Either, as long as it's not Dr Pepper."

Phil looks heavenwards as if asking God for strength and drawls "Oh no Maria, after nearly 16 years of working together I had absolutely _no_ idea you hate Dr Pepper so much you put it on the S.H.I.E.L.D Prohibited Items list." with so much sarcasm it's close to a lethal dose.

I sigh as Phil rolls over and crawls low to the ground to rifle through the cooler, my eyes fixed firmly on the stars. I was never any good at stargazing, I never had the time nor the patience to bother learning all the constellations, but I still try to pick them out with just my imagination. It reminds me of being a kid in Chicago and wondering what the stars even looked like; I could never see even just one through all the pollution. "Phil, you're good at astronomy, aren't you?"

"Maria…"

"Is that the Big Dipper or am I imagining things?"

"_Maria_."

I grab my rifle and leap into a crouching position at the tone of urgency in Phil's voice, but it's already too late.

Phil's crouched over the cooler, for once not wearing his suit but a pair of black mission trousers (because it's really not comfortable to wear a suit when lying on concrete for 7 hours straight, even if you are _the_ Phil Coulson), one hand on the gun holster at his side, the other raised in surrender. He looks more resigned than scared about the long silver sword drawing a thin line of blood over his adam's apple.

Phil's assailant immediately gets a rifle shoved in their face, my fingers hovering over the trigger, itching to pull it but knowing that it would very likely get Phil killed. Which is something I'd quite like to avoid. "Drop the sword and no-one has to get hurt."

Silver armour glints under a black hoodie and I take a split second to curse every god and deity out there (yes, including Thor), my rotten luck and especially Fury for depriving us of mission practice for so long. When we were both field agents no-one would've been able to sneak up on us like this. _No-one_. "Silver Samurai, out doing chores for Viper again? Damn, has she got you under her manicured green thumb or what? You used to be scary. Now you're just an over-glorified bodyguard."

He doesn't rise to the jibes, he doesn't even speak. The Silver Samurai has always been one of those strong, silent types, I don't think I've ever even heard him speak in person.

I sense someone appear behind be and automatically duck the blow that would've knocked me unconscious. "Oh c'mon Viper," I say before I even turn around, "like I wasn't expecting that."

A whippet thin woman glares back at me, poison green eyes glowing in the fading evening light and a wicked smirk tugging at her lips. She's crouched on the ledge of the roof, dark green hair curling over her shoulder and brushing over her bodysuit, which is dappled green and black like the scales of a snake. "Oh Agent Hill," she purrs, lips fixed in a smile and hate-filled eyes promising a long and slow death, "I've been _dying_ to meet you in the field again."

"No. You've been _killing_ to meet me again Viper." I drop my rifle (no time to worry about the paint job when facing death herself) and in one fluid move pull out both my pistols, knock off the safeties and point them in opposite directions; one at the Silver Samurai's face, and one at Viper's. He doesn't even twitch. She grins. "Was Berlin not enough for you?" I continue, anger leaking from my words, "Wasn't the Aswan Dam? Why do you even care so much? I don't, you're just another psycho villainess. But every single time I come out on a mission, whether to get something done or save one of my agents, you show up, we fight, you leave. Usually someone dies. You're like a teenager with a creepy obsessive crush." I glare at her, breathing heavy in a desperate effort to keep my temper under control.

"Knowledge is power," she breathes, all the teasing gone from her smile, "and I won't give you either." A poisoned dart flies out of her sleeve before she even finishes her sentence and I twist to avoid it, but I don't see the second one until it embeds itself in my shoulder.

Shit.

I fire off every single bullet in my right gun as I yank out the dart, but she dodges every single one with the sinuous grace her name suggests. In the corner of my eye I see Phil slam backwards into the Silver Samurai to jolt the sword away from his neck, so he can duck under it and twist to his feet, pulling out his gun and firing off shots that send silver shards twirling through the air as he backs away to get some space between him and that sword. The Silver Samurai advances on him, but I don't even have half a second to help him out.

Because Viper is onto me, and by God is she fast.

She strikes like a snake, fast and just as lethal, a straight-fingered jab to my throat that misses by no more than a hair's breadth, followed by an almost simultaneous heel to my stomach. I absorb the blow, it's not like I have any choice, and drop my other gun in the process, but take my opportunity to grab her ankle in a vice-like grip and yank her off her higher vantage point on the ledge surrounding the roof.

She goes down with a furious snarl, landing hard on her back in the gravel, but kick-flips over backwards and lands on her feet before I have any chance to press my momentary advantage. The heel of her hand goes straight for my nose, but I bring up both arms to block it with a classic 'x' block. Viper growls, green lips pulling back to bare her teeth, before launching a kick that smashes into the side of my knee, nearly sending me down and sending shooting pains all the way up my leg. Now it's my turn to snarl.

Normally, I would be alright fighting Viper. While my general mission skills might not be quite up to scratch, I always made sure to keep up with sparring practice, because considering my luck, some villain would definitely come barrelling into my office if I didn't. It's like extreme karma. If I miss one training session, just one mind you, I'll get thrown into combat before Phil can shout 'Goddamn it Maria!'. But that dart was poisoned. I knew that before my balance went wonky and my eyesight started exploding with purple sparks. And that definitely wasn't good for fighting.

Viper grins as I drop to my knees, fighting with everything I have to keep my eyes open. "It's impressive that you have stayed awake as long as you have. Men twice your size have fallen under half the time, I'll be interested to find out what drives you later."

"I won't give you jack shit." I slur, the words heavy and difficult in my mouth. She sashays over and I launch a punch, but she steps out of the way with barely any effort at all and continues advancing.

Manicured green nails dig into my chin as Viper grabs my face and forces it heavenwards. The stars blur and swirl around in the black velvet sky like dancers at a ball.

"Agent Coulson, drop your weapons."

I hear a solid thud as a gun hits the ground.

"Phil, don't-"

"Maria, with all due respect, shut up. You're high, and in no position to be issuing orders."

Green hair looms into my vision, framing a bone white face and blurry green features. "I'm g-gonna fffucking-"

"I suggest you do as your partner tells you and _shut your mouth_."

That's the last thing I hear before a fist shoots down and slams into my temple, instantly blanketing the world in black.

(*I*I*I*)

I wake up only to be blinded by white lights even from behind my eyelids and deafened by some asshole banging on a drum.

I quickly realise the drum is actually just a pounding headache, but it doesn't make it any less rude. Who gave a headache permission to take up residence in my head? I certainly didn't.

"Rise and shine pumpkin pie."

My eyes snap open and immediately fix on a seriously bored looking Phil Coulson. Like he-would-kill-six-people-with-a-paperclip-and-half-a-tube-of-toothpaste-just-for-something-to-do bored. "Don't you dare call me that."

"Why not? It's not like you can come over here and kill me."

He's right. My hands are manacled above my head, my ankles are in much the same position, there's even a metal band around my waist and I can't move an inch. What's infinitely more worrying are the wires running from a hole in the wall to electrodes stuck on my temples, neck, chest, wrists, elbows, knees and ankles. Great. Torture time, woo-fucking-hoo. "Still, don't call me that or I swear to god I'll learn to teleport through sheer force of will just so I can come over there and murder you."

Phil bites back a mirthful grin, grey eyes sparkling. "If you manage that, I'll _let_ you kill me."

A tension filled silence follows, where I analyse the room for possible methods of escape despite the fact Phil has definitely already tried it, and he waits patiently for me to satisfy myself that we really can't escape. Because we can't. Viper might be a bitch, but she's a smart bitch, I'll give her that, and she's determined too. To get out of her clutches, we're gonna have to take extreme measures.

Phil, who for his part is pinned down to a metal chair with his hands manacled behind his back, raises one flawless eyebrow. We've both been divested of all our weapons (obviously), and while they've left Phil with a pair of ratty grey slacks, I'm tied up in only my bra and pants. Which is rude. Whatever happened to the girl code?

"Are you done?"

"I'm just waiting for you to get started."

Phil sends me an are-you-even-fucking-serious glare of epic proportions. I raise both eyebrows. He tilts his head sideways. I nod twice. He closes his eyes as if to say 'here we go again'. I motion for him to hurry up. He purposely shifts his eyes towards the closed and probably locked door. I sigh. Great, now we're going to have to wait for some minion to open the goddamn door before we can escape. Wonderful. Unless…I press the inside of my elbow against my hip, and feel the faint crackle of S.H.I.E.L.D's cam foil technology against my bare skin. Right, so we still have lock picks. I grin at Phil and wiggle my eyebrows, and he sighs overdramatically, but the light switches on behind his eyes and he begins to shift in his chair.

To cover his manoeuvring I strike up a conversation. "Notice how they're going to torture _me_ yet again out of the two of us."

"It's really quite offensive to be honest." Phil sighs as if he finds the situation truly regrettable, as if someone had fetched him tea when he wanted coffee and now he's mildly disappointed in their judgement. "Why do they always use you against me like _I'm_ the one who's going to crack first? Let's be totally honest here, neither of us has ever cracked under torture. Ever. But they _always_ look at me and go 'oh, a sweet old guy, surely he'll break down when his tough-as-nails partner starts screaming'. Frankly, it's offensive."

"Well I think its offensive that-" A burst of static cuts off what I was about to say before I can finish my sentence. Phil and I exchange a look and he starts shifting in his chair faster.

"Oh Agent Hill, you cannot possibly understand how long I've been waiting for this." It's Viper. Of course it's Viper. This psycho demoness really needs a good kick in the teeth. Also a lecture on how to be a better villain because, a _monologue_, really? "You, out of every S.H.I.E.L.D agent have always been of the greatest interest to HYDRA. Nothing is known about your past or the secrets you hide, not even by your own agents. Not even by your so called 'friends'. How much information you must hold in your pretty little head, how much knowledge, how much power. If I had your memories at my disposal, I could overthrow Red Skull with a flick of my wrist and only the smallest of skirmishes. You have delayed my rise for too long Agent Hill, and your partner's death brought together HYDRA's greatest enemy. For those reasons," and oh but there's a smile in her voice and she's far too pleased with herself for what's coming to be anything but revenge, "this will not be pleasant."

There's a split second where Phil's wide eyes meet mine and there's terror there and there's fear in my veins but I mustn't show it no I absolutely can't afford to show it-

_Flashes of red, blood, screaming, a sword on the wall, a schnick, a head rolling on the carpeted floor-_

Phil's grey eyes open wide, panic clear as he wriggles furiously in his chair, screams ringing around the room without any visible source-

_A dark street, looming faces, flashing knives in the dim moonlight, a red hat and matching red lipstick-_

Phil tearing his eyes away from mine to stare down at his hands as my vision blurs over with tears-

_A smile, a hug, a flinch, an apology, starry nights and secrets and dark shadows and whispered promises- _

White noise fills the air and I'm thrashing now, tears running down my cheeks and the air is alight with sparks of electricity-

_Laughter, camaraderie, orders and orders and orders, a dark corner, tearing pain radiating from my stomach-_

A sickening crack as Phil wrenches himself forward, both his thumbs dislocated to escape the handcuffs and now his shoulders too-

_A blue dish steaming with bubbling cheese on the window sill, dark cells and warm blood and screams ringing around bright white rooms-_

Phil is suddenly closer than he was before, grey eyes worried and mouthing words that don't reach my ears-

_Badges and guns and one lethal eye and two sheepish blue eyes and emotionless green eyes and always, always the reassuring grey eyes-_

Those same grey eyes come into focus with worry blazing in them as the pain stops, electrodes dangling from one calloused hand while the other gently takes hold of my elbow and peels back the now-defunct camo-foil in order to take out the lock picks and start unlocking my cuffs as quickly as possible.

It takes me what seems like a lifetime to calm down from what could be only described as the most concentrated PTSD attack of my over-experienced life, complete with some rather painful electrocution which has made my muscles spasm entirely uncontrollably, but in reality it's only as long as it takes Phil to pick the locks on my cuffs and gently help me down off the wall. Because as fancy as HYDRA is with all its advanced technology, you still can't open handcuffs with a swipe card. Oh the joys of modern technology.

I angrily wipe away the drying tears from my cheeks and refasten some of my hair that escaped my ponytail during my struggling. Because now I'm mad. Really mad. Like burn-down-the-world-with-fires-of-fury really and truly _fuming_. No-one uses my past against me like that. Nobody. And making me relive the memories themselves, seeing the horrific images and feeling the phantom pains and watching all those people die? Oh yes, HYDRA needs a reminder why Phil Coulson and I are Strike Team Gamma, and if breaking out in our underwear with just a set of lock picks at our disposal doesn't teach them to fear us, I honestly don't know what will.

Unfortunately, you can't pick HYDRA doors with lock picks, because they do in fact use swipe cards. Fortunately, HYDRA goons come charging into rooms without checking whether there are highly trained spies behind the doors. I make a mental note to check that S.H.I.E.L.D agents don't do that when our prisoners make an escape attempt, because it's just embarrassing.

Just think, it was only this morning that I was worrying about Deadpool breaking out. How the tables have turned. Hey, ate least he's impervious to bullets and got pancakes in the bargain.

I bet I won't get any pancakes.

It only takes one extremely angry Phil Coulson (he's very rarely angry but when he is by God it's like a force of nature) a matter of seconds to disarm four goons dressed top to toe in full black body armour.

The door flies open, only for the first two guards to freeze in complete shock upon seeing me in all my near-naked glory, hands on hips and thanking every god that I don't know personally that I put matching underwear on this morning. Black, with little white bows on. I know my underwear is cute, but the way I could see their pupils dilate under their visors was a little ridiculous. Men, what can you do. Phil took his opportunity to step out behind them, taking their feet out from under them with two well placed kicks before stepping around them and stabbing them both in the jugular with a pick. He knelt by their sides, ignoring the spurts of blood and dying death rattles of the two men, and tossed me both their handguns, so when the next duo came along with obvious orders not to get distracted by a reasonably attractive half-naked woman, I could put a bullet between their collar bones.

There's no time for conversation, no time for Phil to pull me into his arms and hug my problems away (which is a 100% effective method, I know from experience, even if it would be awkward when we're both half naked) like he so obviously wants to, no time for him to sit us both down with a hot chocolate on the roof of the Triskelion and fill in the paperwork together from whatever recent mission was haunting us. Besides, even if there was, Viper is inevitably watching us, and though I don't know exactly what she saw from my screwed up head, I'm damn well not going to tell her anything else incriminating.

So instead, we rifle through the dead guards' pockets and weapons belts, both of us taking a t-shirt and pants but leaving the body armour, going for speed over ill-fitting protection. No sense running around in just our underwear after all, even if running around in just a bra and pants and being mildly attractive can apparently knock guys out for six. We decide this in silence, using a series of hand gestures and taunt expressions that seem as old to me as time itself. The thought that I don't find stripping dead bodies weird anymore enters my mind, but I banish it quickly as irrelevant to the situation. Distractions so often equal death in this game, and in the Viper's nest I can't afford that. Neither of us can.

Because right now, both Phil and I are in the mood to burn this HYDRA base down to its foundations, and it's all the better if Viper goes down along with it.

It takes us seven minutes, twelve guards and three different stolen swipe cards to pass through three different corridors. Sadly enough evil organisations don't tend to label their corridors with directions like 'Evil Psycho Leader Straight Ahead', but hopefully if we just keep moving, kill enough minions and blow up enough stuff, Viper herself will eventually show up to stop us. Because if I were her, that's exactly what I'd do. After grabbing some high-powered, pretty much unstoppable weapons of course.

Aw shit, why did I even think that?

"Viper's going to be on her way now." Phil murmurs, face turned away from the nearest camera and his voice barely audible under the gunfire as we exchange shots with three goons hidden around the corner. We used our only grenade to blow open the last important-looking door, so we're down to a hand gun each and the machine gun Phil's saving for when events turn drastic. Trust me, we might be alone and without backup deep within a HYDRA base in God-knows-where, with no armour and a rapidly depleting supply of weapons, but in my opinion we're still doing pretty well.

"No shit." I mutter back, popping out into the corridor for a brief second to shoot one of the enemy in the neck before ducking back behind cover. "You just wrecked what was probably a very expensive psychosomatic/electric shock torture machine, and stopped Viper getting her green gloved hands on my memories…hopefully anyway."

"Speaking of which, are you feeling okay?" There's concern underlying his voice even as he calmly shoots one man in the thigh and the other in the shoulder, before stepping out in one bold move and expertly shooting both targets in the throat. It's mildly annoying: the head isn't an option because of their helmets, and their chests are protected by layers and layers of body armour, though luckily for Phil and I, they can all shoot about as well as a bunch of Imperial Stormtroopers. Seriously, it's cringe-worthy, and we're the ones getting shot at.

We hurry down the corridor towards the freshly cooling bodies and, after I empty my last bullet into the camera that is tracking our movements, take the various weapons off their belts. Three handguns, two batons and a hunting knife…I miss my pulse bombs.

"Phillip J. Coulson, if you really just asked me if I'm okay I'll sign you up to Psych when we get back, see if Dr Sukes can find out whether you've finally gone insane or if you're just being wilfully annoying. Does my past seem like it induces smiles and rainbows to you?"

"As probably the only other person on the planet who knows everything that happened to you," and we can thank the Caracas mission for that, "I can safely say that no, your past isn't great." A hail of gunfire erupts and we both duck into doorways on opposite sides of the corridor, both of us almost rolling our eyes. Statistically, one of them should've at least managed to graze one of us by now, just by chance. "Are you functional is probably a better question."

"Right now, yes, I am. I'm planning to have a breakdown later though. You can join me if you want."

"9pm, the store room in the back of the cafeteria?" His words are half a joke, and half an honest question. Jesus, even the mere mention of that room brought back memories. I'd gotten myself confined to the heli-carrier for…certain reasons, and I was also forbidden from seeing Phil. It had been back when Peggy Carter was in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D, and I can honestly say that was the only time I ever disobeyed her orders for a purely selfish reason. That might be the only time I've ever disobeyed any orders actually…except the Council's. Because fuck the Council. Anyway, the two of us had snuck around the heli-carrier for months like a pair of schoolgirls, finding increasingly odd hiding places until we'd ended up in the storage closet behind the counter in the cafeteria hiding from a suspicious Nick Fury. God, we managed to trap ourselves in there for hours after the nightly Late Night Insomniac's Meeting started up, left with no choice but to talk about anything and everything in the pitch black. It had become a kind of ritual after a while, but it had trailed off when I got promoted to Deputy Director and I 'no longer had the time'. It's official, I suck, I'm a terrible partner. How the hell could I neglect Phil for six whole years? When had paperwork become more important than my best friend?

"I wouldn't miss it for the world Phil." We share a grin. And really, I won't; if I die here today, I swear I'll fight my way back from death as a ghost to turn up.

I lean out of my doorway slightly and let four bullets fly, and listen to the sound of four bodies hitting the ground in near perfect synchronisation. Oh yes, I still have my skills.

We both almost step out into the corridor, but both halt, wide-eyed, at the unmistakable sound of a large weapon charging up. What did I tell you about Viper turning up with a big ass weapon?

Dammit.

"As a fellow woman," comes Viper's voice, low, soft and oddly sympathetic, "I salute you for your hardships. No-one else has screamed quite so much under the force of their own memories. But as your enemy," her voice hardens back to the low purr that I've learnt to hate, "I'm going to use them to destroy you."

"Thanks for the heads up." I whisper sarcastically to myself, but I keep my voice down on the off chance she doesn't know our exact locations. Not that it'll matter if her weapon is big enough; she's crazy enough to blow us all to hell if she has to.

A pair of heels click-clack down the hallway towards us, the sound ringing with intimidation. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

There's no use hiding, I might as well find out what's happening before she's on top of us and ready to blow us to pieces. Cautiously, I crouch as low as I can get to the floor and peer around the corner, my logic being that Viper is less likely to be examining foot height for her targets.

It's not a pretty sight, the HYDRA deputy is as put together as always, green lips curved into a smirk and equally green eyes scanning the corridor as she strides forwards, not sparing a glance for her dead agents as she tracks their blood along the floor under her well-heeled shoes. Viper herself however is not going to be our main problem. The giant black cannon-style gun she's balancing on her hip with both hands gripping it tightly in dark green talons is. It's a monster of a weapon, with a huge black muzzle, wicked silver prongs and glowing green panels up the sides that bubble with a malicious looking lime green liquid. I have no idea what it does.

Green eyes meet mine and begin to twinkle with malicious glee. "There you are. Now hold still…" The gun begins to gleam green inside the barrel, and whatever it does, there's no way in hell I'm staying within range of that.

I push off the floor and roll away from her and deeper inside the room, ducking behind an office desk to get out of her sight. Normally I would've taken my opportunity to search through their computers or the files stacked haphazardly across abandoned table tops, but this is Viper, she's easily as good as I am and I can't afford to split my attention.

I go silent, my breathing slowing, my feet stopping, even my heartbeat seems to drop its pounding noise. The only problem is, Viper's done that too, so I have no idea where in the room she is.

And then a low hum starts up, and the green glow of her gun peaking over the counters nearly makes me startle before she turns the lights on and the glow disappears. But I know where she is now, and I can track the humming of her oversized gun and move myself away from her accordingly.

That is, until six of the desks go up in a roar of green flames. That's not so unusual, not unusual enough to make me reveal myself anyway. And then the sprinkler system comes on, the low whine of a fire alarm warning no-one but the dead bodies in the hallways and whoever else hasn't been smart enough to evacuate themselves already that they might be in danger from something other than the S.H.I.E.L.D team rampaging through their hallways. The flames hiss at the touch of the sprinklers, but don't go out; if anything they only rise higher in defiance.

The pieces click together. Green flames. Flames that don't go out. HYDRA's obsession with the myths, and especially mythological weapons.

It's Greek fire.

HYDRA's built a weapon that spits fire that can't be put out. And they've put it in Viper's hands.

Are they fucking insane? Do they want a world left to rule when they're done? Because if I've ever met someone who would burn down the world just to prove she could, just to take it away from everyone else who loved anything in it, it's Viper. And by God she'd grin while she did it.

Too lost in sheer horror, images of skylines burning across the world springing into my mind, I'm too slow to move out of Viper's sight as she rounds the corner, figure silhouetted by the green flames as she carefully skirts around them. One spark and she'll be dead, and what's probably worse in her mind, I'll still be alive.

There's one bullet in my gun. One singular bullet. You're probably screaming '_Shoot her in the head_!', but I've done that twice before and she's come back to life both times, though HYDRA only knows how. So instead, I take my aim, quickly correcting the shaking caused by my hands which are still reacting to the earlier electric shocks, and fire.

My aim holds true. The bullet flies straight into the barrel of Viper's gun, ricocheting around the inside and causing green sparks to fly through the air. That should but the death-machine out of commission for a while.

Viper does exactly the opposite of what I was hoping for; she doesn't snarl, she _laughs_. "As if I'm stupid to wield a gun against a sharpshooter which could be rendered useless so easily. Frankly, I'm insulted. Paperwork has dulled you Hill, you've been far too easy to play with, its hardly even a challenge anymore. Still," she said, raising the gun slightly, green sparks twisting around in concentric rings, glowing brighter and brighter as they swirled together in the centre, "I think I can find it in me to relish your demise. Goodbye Agent Maria Hill."

She fires the gun, but I roll out of the way at the last second, my back burning with the heat of the flames roaring to life inches behind me. I'm surely get a nice sunburn from that one.

The shadows flicker and dance over the walls, tossed this way and that by the green flames. Most people are afraid of shadows and the dark they bring, but I know better. I know the shadows bring hiding places, and hiding places bring help.

"You're forgetting one thing Viper."

"Oh please, don't bore me with pitiful bluffs."

"I have a partner."

Her green eyes widen comically, green lips parting in dawning realisation, and to be fair to her, she very nearly makes it away from the pistol which smashes into the back of her head. But then again, no-one has ever escaped an angry Phil Coulson. Ever.

"You okay?"

"That's still a stupid question."

Phil grins, steps over Viper's prone form, kicks the Gun Of Ultimate Death By Fire out of her reach and offers me a hand up from my position sprawled across the floor. I take it and let him haul me to my feet, brushing myself down and examining Phil for any injuries.

"Twelve HYDRA goons showed up after you lured Viper away. Twelve. I had four bullets Maria, and that's not good odds even if I wasn't stood here in a pair of horrendously ugly trousers. Plus," Phil gestures mock irritably at his bare feet, "the floors in here are colder than the heli-carrier, and that's damn well saying something."

"…So, what do we do with her?"

"Y'know what? I actually have an idea."

(*I*I*I*)

By the time the Avengers arrive, I'm tapping my foot with impatience. For the 'World's Mightiest Heroes', they're rather slow. I should do something about that, reaction time improvement or something. Maybe I can send them after Deadpool…now _there's_ an idea and a half.

After Phil singlehandedly took down Viper, the rest of the HYDRA base fell like a set of well placed dominos, practically falling over each other to surrender. Pathetic really, even if Phil and I _did_ pretend we had an entire legion of S.H.I.E.L.D agents surrounding the whole base. We discovered a lot of very interesting things with just a quick run through of the base, and I'm sure when we can get a proper S.H.I.E.L.D Intelligence team down here they'll discover a lot more. Because we'd been taken to the Nest, yes, _the_ Viper's Nest, the legendary hidden HYDRA base we've spent decades and millions of pounds trying to find, and Phil and I got taken there without even trying. Silver Samurai was nowhere to be seen, but Viper is currently handcuffed and unconscious at my feet on the rocky mountainside. And yeah, I might have dragged her along the floor with a little more force than necessary, and I might have thrown her into a few sharp corners, but hey, can you blame me?

Stark lands first, metal feet landing with an almost silent clunk on the mountainside, his face mask flipping back to reveal a roguish grin. "Hill&amp;Phil, how nice to see you. I assume everyone has been secured, everything has been boxed and labelled numerically and the maximum amount of paperwork has been filled out and meticulously filed?"

"Stark, there are days you don't want to mess with me, and then there's today. So I suggest you leave my presence before I give you so much paperwork to do you bleed to death from the papercuts."

Thor lands next to his teammate and pats the genius so hard on the back that Stark nearly stumbles off the cliff. "Aye Stark, one should not trifle with those who create their own release from captivity." A dark shadow passes behind Thor's eyes. "I would know."

Before anyone can so much as exchange an awkward look (because Thor 'sneakily' mentioning Loki is always really freaking awkward) a slightly peeved but very amused voice rings out from the quinjet, causing a small avalanche on a nearby peak. "I can't believe this. I cannot physically believe this." A pale middle finger appears on the pilot's window at the front of the quinjet, and behind the darkened glass I can just make out the edges of Barton's huge smile. "I owe Mockingbird like half a million bucks for this. See, _I_ bet that you'd escape all by yourselves, and _she_ bet you'd escape without any help _and_ take Viper captive. Since that's never happened before, even when you were both in practice-"

"You wait till I get up there and I'll show you how out of practice I am!"

"What're you gonna do, sit on me?" Clint quips back, even as he uses most of his considerable skills to turn the quinjet around in the very tight space between the mountains, so that the hangar door faces us. "C'mon then losers, pile in, it's doughnut day in the cafeteria and if I miss out on my sugar fill you ain't gonna like what happens." There's a yelp as Romanoff grabs his ear in warning, but Barton has a point; he's not nice when he's missing out on doughnuts. Neither is Phil actually, it's a _wonderful_ quality they share.

"Thor, grab Viper, and don't let her go no matter what she says or does, or what happens to the rest of us. I don't care if we get blown out of the sky, you hang onto her, understood? We have gone through enough over the years at her hands; she needs to be put away for good." Thor nods solemnly, scooping up the unconscious HYDRA Deputy and rapping her in a bear hug, green hair spilling over his godly arms.

"Right, now let's get moving." I look at Phil, who pulls a face. "What, I can't give orders now? Besides, my feet are fucking freezing, it's like being on the heli-carrier stood out in all this snow!"

"The heli-carrier can't be that cold." Stark snarks.

I take a running jump and land neatly in the quinjet's open hangar. "New S.H.I.E.L.D rule: Stark has to walk around the heli-carrier barefoot at all times."

"Hey!" Stark yells indignantly, much to the amusement of his teammates, before he turns to Phil with a beseeching look.

My partner only laughs quietly, the sound delighted and slightly malicious as Phil joins me inside the quinjet. "You messed with the wrong pair of pissed-off assassins today Stark. The rule stands. Have fun with your frostbite!"

(*I*I*I*)

It's 9pm now, and we're back at the heli-carrier. Specifically, Phil and I have simultaneously escaped medical (apparently a looming Steve Rogers means everyone is too scared to sign either of us out) and have met up in the last place anyone will think to look: the store room at the back of the cafeteria. Phil munches on a donut and I sip a large cup of black coffee (it's never too late for coffee), while we lean against the wall and each other, listening to the angry shouts of the Avengers (and the occasional yelps of a rather cold Stark) in the distance.

"They sound mad." Phil muses, sounding so unbothered by the fact that the World's Mightiest Heroes are hunting us down that I have to smile. They're nothing compared to HYDRA after all.

"I still can't believe you disobeyed the strict orders of Captain America." I tease gently. "Breaking out of hospital in such an irresponsible manner, whatever will he think?"

"Steve might be my hero," Phil has the decency to blush as he says it, "but he's neither my commanding officer, nor my partner." He doesn't look at me, neither of us can bare looking at each other when we say sentimental things, because inevitably one of us will burst out laughing and ruin the moment. Instead he leans on me just a bit more, and I lean back. Supporting each other, just like it should be. "Besides, Medical is boring. And don't tell Clint I said that, because I'm being a giant hypocrite."

"Remember that time when you handcuffed Clint to the bed in Medical with the unpickable, unbreakable cuffs from SciTech? I don't think I've ever seen to someone resort to flicking rubber bands at people as a threat before."

"Or throwing his water glass at my head when I brought paperwork because he was a 'captive audience'." I can feel Phil grinning in the darkness. "I don't think I've ever moved so fast. Or, as a matter of fact, have I ever seen Romanoff so smug."

"Well, she did tell him not to pick a fight with Wolverine. In front all the X-men. At Xavier's Mansion." We both roll our eyes at the memory. Clint never has got over his grudge with the X-men's leader after their first…_encounter_ all those years ago, but since no-one can really argue with Xavier's kind smiles and mild-mannered charm (except Nick Fury, who could pick a fight in an empty room), Clint's ire had pretty quickly landed on Logan, who couldn't resist rising to the archers taunts every single fucking time.

And people wonder why we take great pains to keep the X-men and the Avengers separate.

"So…" Phil starts awkwardly, having polished off the last of his donut.

"I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"I _will_ be fine."

"I know."

"You do?"

"You're the strongest person I know Maria, the strongest person I've _ever_ known. You've survived the events of your past so many more times than you ever should've had to, you can survive it this time and you'll survive it in the future. Hell, you conquer your past every single day just to come to work and help save the world, like everyone else in this god forsaken place."

Oh yes, I've conquered many things. I like to think I'm strong, unbreakable even. But in the last year, I'd realised there was one thing that could break me.

Losing Phil Coulson.

"Thanks Phil." I say quietly, subdued by the memories of the thing that really haunts me.

Because if Phil is alive, I can deal with anything. Fury, the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D, HYDRA, paperwork, the X-men, the Fantastic Four, torture and pain and death and loss; it can all tremble before me.

After all, I've never been worse off than when I thought Phil Coulson was dead for those two weeks, seven hours forty three minutes and twenty five seconds. And Nick Fury has never been more scared than when I found out he'd been lying to me.

Because Phil is my partner, and I would've walked into Hell to get him back.

And punching Fury square in the face definitely wasn't as bad as that.

**_Remember the foreshadowing about Loki's eyes, because it should be important next chapter. I think. It will be about Loki though. and hopefully it should be out on April Fools. _**

**_Review?_**


	6. April Fools Isn't Just For Children

_**April Fools Isn't Just For Children**_

_**For OkieDokieLoki. Thou asked, and so thou shalt receive. Love you in a platonic, pun-based way. **_

_**Been spelling Agent May as Mei all the fucking time, ain't about to change it now. **_

There is one day every year that the whole of S.H.I.E.L.D celebrates with enough enthusiasm to scare anyone.

It's not Christmas. Or Easter. Or Diwali. Or Eid. Nor is it St. Patrick's Day (though a lot of pinching does go on), nor is it the day widely rumoured to be Fury's birthday (hint: it's not Fury's birthday).

It's April Fools Day.

On the first day of April every year, any agent not on an urgent mission goes back to their respective base, hunkers down, gets out their meanest grin and their mystery liquid-splattered scorecard, sets out their pranks, and settles down to wait.

Only S.H.I.E.L.D has its own April Fools traditions. We don't follow the 12am-12pm rule…well, we do, but with a twist. Every base across the world, from the Treehouse to the Triskelion to the Raft to the Slingshot, sets their clocks to match the heli-carrier, and then the heli-carrier flies as fast as it can against the passage of the day for 24 hours.

24 hours of pranks and hell on (and above) Earth.

It's freaking awesome.

As usual, I start the day with the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D assembled at my feet (power complex, who me?), rookies yawning and rubbing sleep out of their eyes, and the higher ranking agents smirking and rubbing their hands together gleefully. As per usual, the rookies (including the Avengers) aren't going to know what hit them. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

"Alright ladies, gentlemen and assorted people, listen the hell up. I'm only going to say this once and the consequences for not listening are dire, even by my standards." That gets a lot of people to stand up straighter and open their ears. Ego boost or what? "In twenty minutes the intercom will sound, signalling the start of the official pranking period. Any pranking before this time will be deeply frowned upon, and whoever you prank will get to decide your punishment. That goes for pranking after the specified time limit as well, and since there's a two minute warning there will be no acceptable excuses. So watch the fuck out. Furthermore, anyone destroying or otherwise damaging anyone's property, especially S.H.I.E.L.D's, will have the cost taken out of their next paycheck, plus a 10% surcharge for the time and effort it will take to replace." I glare down at Barton specifically, because Lord know he thinks pranking S.H.I.E.L.D itself counts on the pranking tally even when _everyone _knows it doesn't, but he's far too busy cutting deals with Romanoff, Raven and Mockingbird to be paying any attention. "Next, the white capes. Anyone wearing a white cape is _so _strictly off limits it's not even funny; they're busy on actual S.H.I.E.L.D business running lifesaving missions, and if you delay them in any way that will be seen as equivalent to treason. You should have received the codes for the chips sewed inside the capes in your emails, so automatic pranking machines are not out of the question, they just need an accompanying camera to document any pranks you want added to your tally sheet and some code to omit the white capes from your pranking."

I drone on, barely paying attention to the rules and regulations pouring out of my mouth as I stand at parade rest on top of the platform: I've given this speech so many times before I don't even need to think about it. Instead I let my eyes scan over the crowd of assembled agents, flicking from figure to figure and watching the different reactions play out from terror to pure glee. Wide-eyed rookies are starting to realise exactly what they've got in store, and even the ex-Marines and the top recruits we pinch from other spy agencies look like they're going to shit themselves. The higher ranking agents however look they're already picking out targets: Romanoff is fingering the paint grenades dangling from her belt, Barton is so decked out with modified Nerf weapons he looks like he's going to fall over, Mockingbird seems to be twirling a remote through her fingers, Mei is already hiding in the rafters (she can't be seen being so childish after all), Raven…

Who the hell is that?

Slightly to the left of the centre of the crowd stands a woman with tumbling blonde hair, wicked green eyes that sparkle with mischief and a sultry smile. She fits right in, average height, average weight, average level of excitement...the only thing that doesn't fit is the fact that _I don't recognise her_.

I know every agent at S.H.I.E.L.D. Show me a face or give me a name, and I can tell you their entire life story, their psych analysis and who they spend their spare time with. God knows I do enough paperwork to have simply absorbed these things, never mind having a near photographic memory.

Realisation hits me like a ton of bricks and I nearly choke on my speech, keeping going only through sheer determination not to give the game away. A few sets of eyes turn to me, but most people are far too busy to be paying attention, and those that did notice soon turn back to whatever they were doing. Because I might not recognise the woman.

But I recognise those eyes.

It's as if someone simply flipped the colour from blue to green. The same intelligence, mischief and chaos reside there from (his? her? their?) last visit, the very same eyes that haunted my nightmares for two weeks, seven hours, forty three minutes and twenty five seconds when I thought my partner was dead.

They are Loki's eyes.

Loki is here.

Loki is stood approximately 13 metres away from Thor and the rest of the Avengers. I could have him smashed into the floor in approximately 3 minutes. There would be approximately 52 agents fatally wounded before capture occurred, and more than 150 injured.

That number is too high.

It's too easy to imagine those two daggers plunging into the clueless agents stood either side of the crazy god the second I called attention to him, the carefully crafted disguise falling away to reveal the murderous madman trapped in a corner and fighting for his life that lies so close to the surface. Magic would begin to fly, fires burning away flammable skin and ice spires piercing fragile hearts all around him, hell, Thor's told us stories of Loki destroying entire _armies _with a sigh and a wave of his hand. Only 52 agents dead is probably a wildly optimistic estimate.

No, it's not worth it. Loki can hardly be gathering any tactical information about Earth's defences from _April Fools Day_ of all things, he can wait just one more minute while I finish my speech and then I'm going to corner him and, when only _I _am in danger, I'm going to strip him of his secrets and make him tell me just what the _hell _he thinks he's doing on my heli-carrier.

No-one invades this planet and kills my partner, not on my watch.

"Alright then, I think that's it for the rules. Maiming and murdering don't count as pranks, no pranking the white capes, you get more points for pranking more senior agents and remember to adhere to the time limits and to get your scorecards in to Admin by the end of the week for verification." Usually I would smile right now to really freak everyone out, this is my favourite day of the year after all, but with _him _stood right there I can barely keep my knees from shaking. "You have three minutes until kick off, good luck and happy hunting."

Noise explodes through the hall as the assembled agents stream towards the exit, Stark floating above the chaos in his Iron Man armour (I can't believe Fury made me revoke the rule that he had to walk around the heli-carrier barefoot) and Rogers and Thor standing almost as bodyguards so Banner doesn't get crushed under the crowd's feet, the Winter Soldier following behind his Captain with an almost wondrous expression plastered across that deadly face. Honestly, if I hadn't seen him in action I'd think he was just as innocent as his lost puppy dog expression would suggest.

But now is not the time to muse on why the Avengers insisting the Winter Solider be allowed to live with them in Avengers Tower is one of the most pig-headed, ignorant, barely-concealed threats I've ever received, and _I_ work for an agency that specialises in blackmail and stupid decisions. Now is the time to discreetly follow Loki as she(?) blends in with the crowd and attempts to disappear into the seething mass of people. I know the god can't teleport in such a crowded space, not unless she (I'm going with she, this pronoun thing is doing my head in) wants to announce to the world that she's alive, so as long as I keep her within view I should be able to corner her before she disappears.

Following one blonde head in the corridor turns out to be much harder than it should be, especially when it's April Fools Day and being deferential goes right out the window. Plus, being only 5'8" in a world of six foot giants doesn't help matters. Nevertheless, I spot the supervillain slipping out of the main flow of traffic and heading into a nearly deserted side corridor, eyes flicking around suspiciously as she checks she's not being followed. Silently, I slip into the shadows and follow after her.

"Are you going to stop stalking me or do I need to take drastic measures?" Her voice is low, smooth, challenging and altogether without the madness that tore through it before. As the words escaped bow-shaped lips she turns around, blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders, green eyes meeting mine and one eyebrow perfectly arched.

Impressive. "Neither I should think, considering this is _my _ship." I step out of the shadows slowly (I've seen what damage those tiny daggers can do after all), the throwing knife usually attached to my thigh held loosely in one hand. Sadly enough, I know my handguns won't do any damage, and somehow I don't think Loki will fall for my bluff if I wave them in her face.

"_Your_ ship? I was rather under the impression that this flying monstrosity belonged to your Director of Fury." One blonde eyebrow arches in a way that conveys so much condescending disbelief I can't help admiring the thousands of years of sarcasm that must be concentrated in that single motion.

"And _I_ was under the impression that you're a different gender and your fashion decisions are a lot more questionable. Seems both of us were were mistaken-" The words barely escape my mouth before in a blur of speed I've been slammed against the wall, those familiar green eyes burning with anger and not a little surprise as the features surrounding them melt away to reveal much more dangerous ones.

"How did you know?" he hissed, the mad god rising up from the glittering green shards of his disguise, one arm pressed sharply against my collarbones, pinning me against the wall, and one of his knives drawing a thin red line across my throat. He doesn't even seem to notice my knife slipped in between the layers of his leather and armour, even as it digs into .the fragile flesh between his ribs. "Tell me right now or-"

"I think a better question would be," I say, talking straight over Loki and absorbing the satisfaction of his expression burning with indignation (apparently the Wordsmith doesn't get his words disregarded very often… someone should really fix that), "...what the fuck you think you're doing back on this planet and in this fucking S.H.I.E.L.D base in particular when you had the _temerity _to invade this planet, kill our people and try to _rule _over us without even having cobbled together a half decent plan beforehand!" While his face doesn't change expression, the knife at my neck wavers briefly in surprise. "What, you don't think we noticed how shitty your plan was? Frankly, it was insulting. Were we just supposed to roll over and give in? Let you walk in through that giant portal in the sky with your alien army and your different coloured eyes and set you up a throne on top of the Empire State Building?"

Loki pulls back with a small shake of his head as if he's trying to shake off his confusion. "I'm sorry," he says with a marked decrease of his earlier hostility, "but different coloured eyes? I'm afraid-"

"Save it, I've talked to you mother."

His expression switches from an insincere but near-perfect façade of confusion to completely shut off faster than I can track it. "I have no mother."

I can't help but shrug sarcastically. "Well unless you appeared in the Nine Realms through sheer willpower alone, I'd suggest that you _do _in fact have a mother who gave birth to you _somewhere_."

As if against his will, the tiniest mark of respect appears in the quirk of Loki's mouth, even if he is still awkwardly pressing me into a wall. Honestly, he must be concealing our whereabouts otherwise we would've been either swamped by murderous Avengers or pranks of the highest order, and frankly I'm not sure which is more dangerous. "You speak well, for a mortal."

"And you're looking pretty good for a guy who got possessed...?"

The quirk of his lips grows by the tiniest amount until it could almost be considered a smirk. "I truly would be your Fool of April if I revealed my motives so easily."

"Speaking of April Fools Day, that's one hell of a day for the _Trickster God_ to visit Earth. Any plans to, I don't know, prank us by stealing the pyramids or...trying to take over the planet _again_?" I don't think I've ever let loose such a concentrated dose of sarcasm on one person in my life. Because although on one hand I know exactly what it's like to be brainwashed, wound up like a little tin man and set loose on the cowering populace (trust me I do), on the other hand... Loki's an asshole.

"World domination doesn't appear to be on my schedule for today, but I could pencil it in at 4:35 if you'd like?" The sarcasm is strong with this one, but if the way he's pulling back from giving me a forceful acquaintance with the wall is any indication, he might actually be beginning to respect me.

Or be planning to summon that sceptre of his and stab me through the stomach in exactly the same way as he stabbed Phil. Wouldn't that be just perfect.

"Or," he continues with both eyebrows raised slightly and a meaningful tilt to his head, "you could allow me to reapply my disguise with an added glamour to change my eyes to a pair less recognisable, and continue my observations of this strange Midgardian tradition without retribution. In return I would swear not to use any valuable information I may uncover against this planet or it's people."

I think over the terms quickly but thoroughly, still pressing my knife into his side just as his rests against my throat. "You will swear not to use any information, valuable or not, against anyone or anything that resides on or originates from Earth, and also that you will never relate that information by any means to another sentient creature until the end of time."

His green eyes narrow shrewdly, pale lips pinching slightly in thought. There's close to nothing of the madman here; it's disconcerting how different he is from anything I saw or heard about him during or after the New York Incident. "I would swear to the terms for the rest of your life."

"My life?" I snort disdainfully. "You obviously think I'm stupid, you're going to live for thousands of years after I'm gone, and whether I'm still here or not I'm going to damn well do my best to protect the people of this planet. Nevermind the fact you could just kill me whenever it's convenient. No, you'll swear it forever."

Loki's pale features settle into hard, razor-sharp lines of annoyance, but he nods, once. "I swear to your terms."

"On your name and your titles." That's what Thor swears on when he really means something, though somehow I don't think the God of Lies will take swearing on his name all too seriously.

My theory is quickly proved true when Loki smirks. "On my name, and my titles."

"And the life of Queen Frigga of Asgard."

"And the…" Loki chokes on the words as he realises what he's saying, and I can't help but replicate his earlier smug smirk. Gotcha. He's damned if he refuses to swear (proving he cares for his 'not' mother) and he's damned if he doesn't (meaning he'll have to keep his word).

"And the life of Queen Frigga of Asgard." he spits out through clenched teeth, green eyes practically catching on fire with the force of his furious glare.

"Excellent." I pull away from Loki, retracting my knife with a flash of silver, and slowly but surely he does the same.

A plan starts to form in my mind, hazy, incomplete and downright stupid (Stark would be proud), but you know what, it just might work. And _technically_, if I'm striking deals with Earth's Most Wanted, it's not treachery if I catch them in the end. Fury might kill me for going behind his back and generally upsetting him, but at least I'm _technically_ not breaking any rules (which I'm always shouting at him for doing), so I'm _technically _not being a hypocrite.

"If you're going to walk around in that disguise of yours, you're going to get pranked."

In a glittering shower of green light the Loki we all love to loathe disappears, and the petite blonde woman I first noticed reappears, piercing green eyes now a soft, flat grey. "You and your agents can try."

"Is that a challenge?" I cock

"Undoubtedly." And then with a Cheshire Cat grin that hangs in the air long after she's gone, Lady Loki disappears in a flash of green light.

Challenge fucking accepted.

(*I*I*I*)

"Avengers, come in." Having dodged through hellfire and paint explosions and trip wires that would've triggered god only knows what, I've locked myself in the relative safety of my office before daring to drop my guard for the half a second it takes to set up a call on the comms.

"Hill if you're sending us on a mission I will lose my shit so hard you'll be cleaning it up for weeks." Barton's voice whips immediately down the line, accompanied by some distant screaming.

"For once I agree with Barton." I can almost hear Romanoff's nose crinkling in distaste over the terrified pleading in the background of her line. "Though not quite so graphically."

"Hell yeah, over in R&amp;D we are gonna fucking own all your asses...HEY MACKENZIE WATCH WHERE YOU PUT THAT-" I wince as I hear the explosion both through my comm and in the distance, the floor rumbling under my feet. That's _got _to hurt.

"You dead Stark?" Steve's deadpan is coming along nicely, I have to admit it, and obviously Barnes agrees if his snickering is anything to go by.

"Not quite." replies Banner with an equal level of snark. "There's a rather large hole in the floor though."

"Mackenzie can pay for it. No, I'm not calling you for a mission…" Multiple Avengers sigh with relief, including Thor, who sighs so loudly it sounds like a quinjet is going off in my ear. "...I guess I'm calling you all to ask for a favour."

"Okay," murmurs Romanoff after a brief pause, "that's just plain scary."

"What kind of favour?" Rogers jumps in immediately, obviously thinking about doing whatever I ask in order to get me off 'Bucky's' back. I have a brief devious moment where I desperately want to ask for something utterly humiliating from the supersoldier (it is April Fools Day after all) but I push that down in return for the mental image of Loki being pranked out of existence.

"There's a certain individual on the heli-carrier right now who really needs to be pranked. _Seriously _pranked. Like utterly, one hundred percent _destroyed _under the carnage we're going to throw at them. I'm sending you a picture now." There's a brief pause as I tap a few keys on my tablet, sending a picture from the security camera in the meeting hall (suck on that technology Loki) to the email addresses of all the Avengers.

"I don't recognise her." Barton replies first, a slight tone of should-I-be-worried to his voice.

"Neither." Barnes follows on, "and I do recognise most...people." He trails off awkwardly, but since today is a holiday I pretend not to notice and refrain from interrogating him.

"Nor me."

"Well, though unfortunately I can't reveal who she is," because by god wouldn't that cause chaos, "I _can _tell you that she's good. _Really _damn good."

"So good that Maria Hill, Queen of Pranking and Three Time Champion, she-who-only-quit-because-every-single-senior-agent-including-Fury-threatened-to-team-up-to-take-her-down, is actually asking for our lowly help?"

"I don't appreciate your teasing Barton. But yes, considering I am the most high profile target of the day and I spend most of it nowadays running avoidance and pass-backs, I am…" _swallow that pride Hill, c'mon this is the guy that stabbed Phil we're trying to catch here_, "asking for your help."

There's an almost reverent silence as I school my features into an iron mask and lock the urge to blush in embarrassment deep down inside, before Stark breaks it. "Holy fucking shit that's a big hole."

"That's what he said." sniggers Barton.

With lightning speed Romanoff snaps back "Not to you.", accompanied by the necessary round of 'Oooh's and 'You just got owned!'s and 'Barton that was really gay...like gayer than usual' the furor dies down (which takes a lot longer than it should considering they're supposed to be the World's Mightiest Heroes and not a bunch of hyperactive teenagers), _Steve_, not Rogers or even Captain America, answers.

"So Agent Hill, can we consider this a fully-sanctioned mission to prank this unknown with the full force of our capabilities? Barring the Hulk of course."

"Quite. And you know up what, you could even consider this a team up between the Avengers, and me." I narrow my eyes at the memory of the last team up I ever went on. "And no Barton, that does not mean we need a rendition of the 'obligatory team up music'. Ever. Again."

The archer sighs petulantly, but then woops as he presumably shoots someone with his assortment of Nerf weapons. I swear he singlehandedly keeps that company afloat. "You know you love me. Avengers Assemble, we have a battle plan to concoct!"

"Avengers plus me." I correct.

"Pfft, Hill you're a part of the Avengers whether you like it or not."

Aw, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Actually, I think that might just be indigestion. That'll teach me to drink four espressos on an empty stomach.

I think I'm going to be sick.

(*I*I*I*)

Disclaimer: if someone ever throws a grenade at you, do not attempt to do what I do. Stop, and run as fast as you can in the opposite direction, keep low, and get behind cover if you can. Especially don't try to slow mo walk away from the explosion. It might look badass, but what doesn't look badass is getting knocked out by a piece of easily avoidable shrapnel.

Whereas when someone opened a vent and dropped what I recognised to be a paint grenade on me, I caught it and swiftly launched it straight back where it came from, before leaping out of the immediate blast area, and passing the split second before the explosion with a satisfied smirk.

Glittery pink goop drips from the vent as I swiftly mark my pranking card, followed by a traumatised yelp and a stream of curses.

A stream of suspiciously British curses.

I know that voice.

"Phoenix?"

A pair of adrenaline-filled green eyes peek out of the grate, followed by the rest of a thoroughly paint-covered but very recognisable face. A pout appears on her lips. "Goddammit Hill," growls the usually ginger assassin, wiping pink paint from her lips with the back of her hand, "you couldn't let me get you just _once_, now could you."

My hands gravitate to my hips. "Phoenix, what the _hell_ do you think you are you doing on my heli-carrier?"

"Um…" Her smile drops slightly into a sheepish grimace as she realises that she's been caught somewhere she shouldn't be, the deadly assassin looking oddly childish as she hangs upside down from the vents. "Joining in April Fools Day?"

"Last I was aware, you were on S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted List, for the grievous assault of one of our agents, as well as her kidnapping, resultant blackmail, the attempt to blow up a city, your public indecency, the attempt to kill the President, associating with a known criminal, _more _public indecency-"

"Alright, alright!" Phoenix interrupts, looking far closer to giggling than to begging for forgiveness. "I get it, I shouldn't be here. But you know Raven _totally _forgave me for that one, and hey, it's April Fools, it's practically a day of world peace around here…" The redhead winces under my glare. "...or not. Look, I'm not here to do anything bad, I just want to have some fun, piss off some agents, maybe kidnap Raven for an hour or two to watch a movie after pranking time is up… I'll even knock off taking jobs for two months if you let me stay the day. _Please _Hill."

I sigh, defeated. I don't have time for _two_ supervillains on my heli-carrier, and I know which one is more dangerous. "You know what, fine, I have bigger fish to fry than you today. Just don't start World War Three and we're even."

She grins ecstatically, eyes lighting up like two spheres of hellish green fire and teeth flashing whiter than ever under glittery-pink drenched skin. "If I didn't fear coming out of this vent with you stood right there more than I fear Armageddon itself, I'd hug you right now Hill."

I have to fight the very strong urge to smile, or worse, engage in a pranking fight. Remember Loki Hill, c'mon, don't get distracted by all the wonderful opportunities for pranking and world domination...dammit. "You better run sunshine, before I call Raven down on your reckless ass."

"I'd quite enjoy that actually." And with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows, the British assassin disappears in a cloud of pink glitter.

The flouting of my carefully constructed rules hits me like a carefully aimed pulse bomb. "HEY!" I yell into the vents, "YOU BETTER STICK AROUND FOR CLEAN UP IF YOU'RE GONNA CREATE THIS MUCH MESS!"

A wild cackle echoes in the distance. "AS IF!"

She is _so _being moved up to third on S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted List. Specifically for pissing me off. And when we catch her, I think I'm going to make her punishment involve cleaning. Revenge is always _so _sweet.

I continue on my way of manually searching for Loki, because apparently after encountering and then dismantling one camera she can avoid our cameras like someone who's been at S.H.I.E.L.D for years (she's so cheating and using magic… Note to self: invest in more magic detectors). Everyone else in the know is continuing on their merry pranking way, whilst carefully letting other high level agents know that there's a bounty of 1000 points of the head of the strange blonde woman moving around the base...incidentally, the same amount of points they'd receive for successfully pranking me. According to Thor, Mockingbird nearly flipped with the excitement of a promising new target after the god, who's surprisingly good at dodging pranks, informed her of the new target. In fact, Thor is worryingly good at this...while his pranks aren't the most original, his avoidance of other people's has been near perfect, with only Romanoff scoring against him by handing him a fake poptart. It comes with living with the Trickster God himself for 1000 years I guess, but still, it betrays Thor's quite considerable intelligence. Now we just need to get him to stop tempting fate by saying things like "It can't get any worse." and "Is that all you've got?" Because that never has good results...

I spot the trip wire half a second too late, the thin silver line making an almost inaudible 'ping' noise as it knocks against the metal button on my shoe.

Shit.

Two slots open up in the walls on either side of me, both filled with one of the modified Nerf cannons which R&amp;D gave out in return for favours two years ago. Cannons which not only launch nearly fifty darts at once in all directions, but also set the darts _on fire_.

Double shit.

I throw myself forward, rolling under another almost invisible trip wire set at waist height, before sliding down the corridor in the classic home run pose and snatching the hand that reaches down to flick my nose as I pass. I am not avoiding all that and ending up getting pranked by a nose flick. Cherry red fake-but-practical nails and deep brown skin tell me all I need to know about the identity of my assailant. "Raven you little-"

"The mystery woman's avoidance of that was cooler than yours."

My eyes snap up to meet her dead serious brown ones. We exchange a message with the quirk of an eyebrow, the nod of a head and the exchange of two pulse bombs and a black marker pen. "Well Phoenix's prank was closer to being successful than yours."

Black eyebrows shoot up to touch her hairline, real surprise appearing on her face. "Phoenix? How on earth did she even get up here...actually, I don't think I want to know. Where did you see her?"

"Corridor I3, around the vent that's currently dripping pink glittery goo."

"I3?" Raven's eyes widen and her hand drifts towards the hilt of the sword strapped to her back. "My room is in I4. And after I trashed her base in DC the last time she kidnapped me, blackmailed me and then streaked butt naked through the Pentagon Centre Courtyard...she's gonna trash my room! Gotta go Hill, good luck with your mystery woman, but frankly I have more important things to do right now...like rescuing my sound system and defending Boris the Potted Plant!" And then she's gone, her trap automatically switching off as she dashes through it, wild black hair bouncing after her with smoke from the burning Nerf bullets providing a dramatic smoke cloud for her to disappear into.

Honestly, some people. Fiery, feminine, fabulous, fearless. What? No I don't like her, don't you know I don't do friends? (And so what if we meet up at the bi-annual We Hate The Council Meeting, and the L.I.P.S.T.I.C.K meeting every so often, and chat and spar and get drunk...oh shut up).

"Hill," murmurs my comm, "I think we found your mystery woman."

"Roger that Rogers." Barnes snickers on the other end of the line and murmurs something about how that joke never gets old. "But why do you sound so flustered?"

"Because," Romanoff answers for him, amusement colouring her voice, "she's obviously been drawn to the kitchens by the cooks wafting the smell of their ultra-brownies down the halls. Except she hasn't chosen to run the gauntlet to get herself a cookie. She's actually taken Basara's sarcastic suggestion of a striptease seriously."

I start walking faster towards where the enticing smell of melting chocolate and marshmallows is emanating from. "She's doing it on purpose isn't she?"

"To cause mischief? Hell yeah. I think this is the most subversive prank I've ever watched. It's chaos over here, there are jaws all over the floor and Barton just stole three cookies without anyone even noticing. These things are _delicious_."

I break into an almost-jog, darting through the middle of a paintball war between the janitors and the engineers without being hit, avoiding two rookies dropping water balloons on people from one of the balconies and having a stare-off with Agent Mei as she darts through the shadows down the corridor, but eventually I do make it to the cafeteria without being pranked.

And I can't help but be impressed by what I see.

Agents young and old, scientists and field technicians, cooks and admin staff, stand around with drinks held in limp hands and wide open mouths. I spy Barton and Romanoff hiding up in the rafters nibbling on cookies and pranking the occasional unsuspecting person, the former even waving at me cheekily as I enter the room.

But the focus of the room is taken up entirely by Loki.

She twirls seductively around the centre of the room, now-grey eyes hooded and pink lips slightly parted, every movement designed to catch the eye and captivate an audience. Her skintight catsuit doesn't help matters, the smooth material emphasising the every undulation of her body and long pale fingers tugging suggestively at the zip under her fluttering throat. No one seems to notice the dangerous light in her eyes nor the predatory tilt of her smile.

Like this, she could conquer nations, the world bowing down willingly at her feet. Like this, New York wouldn't have stood a chance. Like this, I can't imagine how Thanos ever broke her, this magic-fuelled murderess who holds true power in her every sinuous movement.

And so naturally, I have to do something about it. My methods might be old school, but they definitely work.

Slowly, the way I'd draw a gun on a frightened animal, I pull out my tablet...

...and send a blast of white noise over the speakers.

The eerie silence snaps, every person in the room flinching and clutching at their ears, tearing their eyes knowingly or not away from Loki's hypnotising movements. People glare at me from every direction, but quickly disperse either to run the gauntlet for an ultra-cookie or to avoid a cackling Strike Team Delta raining hell down from the rafters. Thank god those two have some ingenuity.

Loki doesn't glare. In fact, she looks almost...pleased, to have been thwarted. One corner of her mouth twitches up slyly, a blonde eyebrow raising to give her whole face a politely amused look, and then a crowd of chattering agents armed with spud guns passes between us, and by the time they've got out of my sight line, Loki is gone.

"Phase 1 is complete ladies and gents, the threat to our collective pranking supremacy has been neutralised, for now."

"_Please_ tell me it's time for Phase 2!" Stark grins madly, the clacking and screeching of machinery clearly audible through the comm.

"I'm still not sure I like Phase 2." Barnes intones worriedly. I can _hear_ his eyebrows creasing in concern.

"Don't worry, there's only a 20% chance this will go horrifically wrong and we'll all die." An explosion even louder than the one before echoes down the corridors and sends the floor jumping under my feet. "Oops."

"Make that 40%." Banner says dryly.

"Don't worry snowflake," I say, fighting down the increasing urge to roll my eyes, "you get used to the chaos eventually."

"Well isn't that just _wonderful_."

(*I*I*I*)

Crawling through the vents gives me the latent shivers. Not because I'm claustrophobic or nyctophobic or anything like that, but because Barton's territorialness over the vents is a whole new level of fuck-no-don't-go-there. If he catches you in here without permission...let's just say the result makes Deadpool look sane. And pretty.

As instructed, I scatter handfuls of the tiny silver balls the Science Bros handed out behind me as I crawl, pushing them out of the vents and rolling them down side passages with a series of satisfying plinks. Agents in the vicinity jump for cover when the silver balls fall from the sky, but when they don't do anything overtly threatening everyone just steers clear of them as if they aren't there. Messing with strange things is something every rookie learns not to do within weeks of joining S.H.I.E.L.D, and not because of the training. No, we have the R&amp;D Department to thank for that. And considering it's April Fools, everyone is doubly wary.

This is stupid. Reckless. Ludicrous. Putting my trust in hotchpotch technology is one thing, putting my trust in the _Avengers_' hotchpotch technology is something else entirely. I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Think about Loki. Romanoff is tracking her as she mercilessly pranks the ever living daylights out of my agents, while the rest of us scuttle around dropping stupid little dinky balls all over the heli-carrier. This might technically be _my _plan, but it's still a horrendously, abominably _stupid_ plan.

"C'mon guys hurry _up_, I wanna try them out!" Why does Stark always sound like an annoying spoilt brat when he's excited? Oh yeah right, because he is one.

I swear I always get stuck with the annoying ones.

"Well you're not the one crawling around in vents that you clearly can't fit through!" Steve snaps, grunting as he wriggles through the confined space. Oh the woes of being a Dorito.

"Dude, I'm like three inches shorter than you and I _live _in here. I've crawled through these vents with a broken leg and a dislocated arm with half of HYDRA on my ass, this is nothing-"

"-compared to what I'm going to do to you if you don't stop telling that story for the millionth time!" Mei and Mockingbird snap in scary synchronisation. Roping everyone available (Raven is still chasing a cackling Phoenix around the ship, both swearing fluently and pranking anything that moves as 'collateral damage') to help with spreading this prank seemed like a good idea at first, but I might have forgotten just how much patience it takes to put up with the Avengers, especially when the world's not in danger.

"Alright, I think you've dropped enough to get the job done." Banner interjects smoothly before a full-scale bickering fight can take off, "I suggest you buckle down and watch the chaos unfold."

"Romanoff, what's the status on our special guest?" I say over the distant sound of Stark doing his best evil villain laugh. Hey, it happens to the best of us; no-one can resist the temptation of the clichés forever, and some people *cough* Fury *cough* just embrace them wholeheartedly from the start.

"She's currently disabling one of Bobbi's traps-"

"HEY!"

"-whilst simultaneously pickpocketing Agent Desai...and now she's rewiring Bobbi's prank machine...ooh, tripwire! Nice touch." Barton giggles mischievously while Morse grumbles under her breath about how 'that was a perfectly good trap', and I can almost hear Romanoff snapping back into focus. "Shall I drop the balls now?"

"Heh, _balls_."

"Shut up Stark, you're the one who invented them."

"Yeah well it was too short notice to create a cool acronym so-"

"What, '_cool' _like J.A.R.V.I.S, which apparently stands for Just A Really Very Intelligent System and is in _no way _related to Edwin Jarvis of Stark Industries, your Dad's butler-"

"Alright, why don't you just back the fuck off Rogers-"

"CHILDREN." I snap. Silence falls. "Thank you. Bruce, if you would."

"Agent Hill, it would be my genuine pleasure."

The chaos starts slowly, almost unnoticeably, as all good chaos does. The silver balls roll across the corridors, seemingly just by the natural movement of the heli-carrier. When nothing overt happens, agents remove themselves from where they've jumped up onto the walls and nervously continue on their way. They have no idea what's about to hit them.

"3...2...1...and we're a go. I hope everyone removed any metal on them or this isn't going to be much fun for you."

"Um, guys…" Barnes squeaks. Oh right, metal arm...well he's screwed. Bye bye Bucky Barnes.

"Don't worry Buck, I've got you."

Mei sighs. "Keep the coupling off the comm line please boys, I don't wanna hear it and I especially don't wanna hear Hill complaining about it."

"Ssh, guys it's starting." Barton whispers, awe colouring his voice.

And for once, he's right.

Slowly but surely, the silver balls start to roll down the corridors, gathering in swarms to follow anyone not wearing a white cape (Stark had wanted to have them chase anyone regardless of their status as off-limits, but I'm nothing if not a stickler for my own rules). Most agents ignore it, but the more astute among them watch with wide eyes as the silver balls start to gain on them, rolling along the floor like a sinister silver wave. Some attempt to run, others try to climb the walls or even other agents, but no-one escapes. The silver balls climb up people's legs, drawn both by the iron in their blood and the metal weapons on their persons, to ensure that they don't attack the walls or anyone involved in the prank. I have no idea how that works, and considering both Stark and Banner would only shout "SCIENCE!" as an answer to any enquiries, I'm perfectly content not knowing.

The panicked shrieks and flailing start when the now-silver agents start getting slammed together in awkward positions by the silver machines covering them, arms and legs tangling together into giant piles of messily stacked people. It is, to be frank, absolutely fucking hilarious. It's a Leaning Tower of People.

I'm so coining that.

"Did it work?" Banner asks.

"Brucie-boy, it worked so well I'm gobsmacked nothing's exploded yet. That does seem to be a theme with you guys."

"Guys! GUYS! HEY MORONS!" The Leaning Tower of People just outside the vent I'm peering through settle down slightly, or at least stop flailing quite so wildly. I recognise Agent Malek from Intelligence (remember when I was fixing the mess I caused with my temper tantrum...yeah, the guy that wanted to put the video of said incident all over S.H.I.E.L.D...that guy) minus his wire glasses, Stark's new playthings comically attached all over his face and threading through his messy black hair. "Right, everyone just stay still. It's obvious we've all been pranked, _badly_, but after the Stickered Sticky Stickers incident at the Sandbox five years ago there's a time limit of half an hour on pranks, so if you all calm the fuck down and wait, we'll be fine in a…" Malek trails off as his eyes meet mine through the grating. Well, at least that proves someone in Intelligence has some observational skills. I'm so glad I promoted him. "Okay, nobody panic, but I think we've been Hill'd." I shake my head slightly. "Managed?" I gesture to aim a bit...stupider. "Avenger'd?" I wink, fighting down a Cheshire Cat smile at the sheer amount of for-fuck's-sake-not-the-Avengers-again that ripples through the pile of agents in front of me.

"So Bucky, you still alive out there?" Stark ruins the faux concern in his voice by giggling childishly at the end of his oh-so-sympathetic question.

The Winter Soldier gives a disgruntled huff. "No thanks to you Tin Man...though Steve and I did have to shut ourselves in a closet to avoid your stupid, evil little contraptions."

"So are you planning to come out of the closet any time soon?" Barton deadpans, the perfect amount of sincerity and innuendo in his voice.

"Barton I swear on Steve's spangly shield-"

"Romanoff, status report." I cut in smoothly, because trust me, no-one wants to hear another argument about whether Barnes and Rogers are gay for each other or not. Personally, I couldn't give less of a fuck, as long as they don't do anything gross in my vicinity.

"We got her Hill." Romanoff's announcement is followed by a series of whoops, congratulations, and one petulant 'Shouldn't have messed with my trap, now should you?!' from Agent Morse. "She escaped them for a good long time, running through the rafters and table jumping in Admin, but Stark's machines did their job, and she does _not _seem happy to be stuck to the rest of the peasants. Hold on, she's saying something...damn this is a bad angle to lipread at...'Well played Agent Hill, well played'."

I should feel smug, I really should. We tricked the Trickster, even if I'm the only one that knows it. We've beaten the god who tried to take over our world (even with the whole debatable mind control thing going on) at his own damn game.

And yet all I can feel is pure, burning _anger_.

"Agent Romanoff," I say, quietly, dangerously, into the sudden dead silence of the comm, "did you just say table jumping...in _Admin_?! And is there, by any chance, _paperwork _all over the floor? Paperwork that used to be filled out, ordered, and waiting in perfect stacks for filing? Paperwork," I breath, the muscle under my eye twitching, "that is explicitly and totally protected by the rules of April Fools day?!"

"Yup." Romanoff admits almost blithely, "and there's coffee spilt over a lot of it as well. And on most of the tablet's that the staff were working on. Your mystery woman did it on purpose too, when she realised that she couldn't escape. Pretty vindictive of her."

Silence reigns for a second. Then: "Does anyone else want to steal a quinjet and escape before the Hill bomb goes off?"

"Aye."

"Oh god yes."

"I don't think even the Hulk could stand against Agent Hill right now."

"I'm terrified, let's go."

"In the competition of chickening out vs. Hill, I know which one I'm more scared of."

"Paperwork." snickers Barton. "I never thought anyone could get on my level of accidentally fucking up that much, but it seems I've been mistaken. To whoever this mystery woman is: you're dead. Now I don't know about you lot, but I'm gonna go and get myself another ultra-cookie. And get off this comm before Hill goes nuclear."

With a final beep, the comm shuts off.

I realise, from the sheet white state of Agent Malek, that I've been glaring at him with the full force of my fury through the vent. I indicate he wasn't the intended recipient of my anger with a series of hand signals, and he sags with relief. A particularly wicked thought strikes me.

I shouldn't.

I can't resist.

I unhook a paint grenade (pickpocketed from Romanoff) from my belt, open the vent slightly and roll it along the floor towards the Leaning Tower of People in front of me. Nearly all of them see it coming, some flailing to try and knock it away, others desperately trying to drag the whole pile of people away. Nothing succeeds.

The grenade explodes, midnight black filling the air for a split second, before descending on the upturned faces of the angry or surprised agents. Agent Malek just looks faintly resigned as black paint drips from the end of his nose. He is seriously going up in my estimation.

Focus Hill, Loki's stuck and there's about twenty minutes left before Stark's prank stops working.

Time for a plan.

(*I*I*I*)

It takes me about seven minutes to reach the broadcasting location of Romanoff's comm (at least she understands dedication to continuing with an order until explicitly told otherwise), passing the rather amusing sight of Phoenix and Raven limping past, thoroughly attached to each other, drenched from head to toe with running makeup and sodden hair, and neither looking very happy about it. Classic.

Eventually I reach the Admin offices, nodding my head slightly to acknowledge Romanoff hidden in the shadows, who snaps a sarcastic salute in response. Slowly, with a smug grin I don't even try to hide, I edge around one of my white-caped agents on her knees trying to rearrange the scattered paperwork, slide over an empty desk, and crouch down until I'm face to face with Loki.

She does not look happy

Someone (*cough* my wonderful Admin staff *cough*) has attacked her with a Sharpie. And hair dye. And what looks like half a cup of cold coffee.

Scratch 'not happy'. Loki is _fuming_.

"Having fun?"

"If Romanoff were not stood observing me in that corner I would free myself from these bonds and begin wreaking my revenge against every miserable mortal here."

"Would, should, could. They're just words sunshine, and until I see some action..." I shrug, "I'm not too worried. You're _stuck_. Have fun with wreaking vengeance from there."

The four agents with various limbs attached to Loki start to look mildly worried, frowns pulling at their faces and eyebrows creasing together. Most people in the office are wearing white capes, and from the looks of things they're starting to realise they might have had a lucky escape. Also that they probably shouldn't have pranked the woman I'm having a personal conversation with, but that's not my concern right now.

"Magnetism?" Loki question idly.

I shrug. "For all I know it could be extra-dimensional physics...I'm joking, I'm not that inept. But I'm still not telling you."

"It's advanced magnetism, paired with...I don't know the mortal term for that. But still, since anyone with enough scientific knowledge should be able to think themselves out of this, I can simply…" The sorceress lightly taps two fingers against the floor as if deep in thought, but I just catch sight of a green gleam of light behind her eyes.

And then, between one blink and the next, Loki is stood centimetres from the end of my nose.

"You should run."

"You should duck."

A knife arcs through the air above me as I duck, and it would've hit Loki directly in the throat if her hand hadn't shot out and caught it just in time. "Agent Romanoff. You could've killed me."

"Somehow I doubt it. I was just _testing_ something." The look in her eyes tells me that I better know what the fuck I'm doing. I don't, but I nod like I do anyway. Romanoff might not know that the mystery woman is Loki, but she definitely knows something is up.

"Did you not listen to my speech? Didn't you hear that Admin is off limits?"

Loki smirks, even as coffee drips through her hair and her forehead proclaims that she's an idiot in big black letters. "Rules aren't really something I believe in."

"I'll give you three minutes to get out of here before I set Agent Romanoff on you." Behind me Natasha rolls another pocket knife between her fingers. "Trust me, you do not want Agent Romanoff to be set on you."

"Your loss." Without a second glance Loki dashes off between the desk, this time taking care to jump _over _the stacks of paperwork and the agents compiling them, rather than charging straight through them like a goldy freight train (Do gods have trains? Must ask Thor).

"My loss? No, I really think that it's my gain."

Natasha steps up beside me, watching Loki go with narrowed eyes and twitchy fingers. "Are you going to evil laugh now?"

"Yep." My cackling echoes through the office, ringing through the rafters and making me feel a hell of a lot better about the situation.

Trust me, a good evil laugh can solve a lot of problems.

Especially when it's against a supervillain.

Evil laughter from the 'good guys' really freaks them out.

(*I*I*I*)

"Agent Hill, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing at this very moment Thor, I just wanted to talk."

Standing high above the smaller hangar bay, Thor's cape flaps in the howling wind as a quintet rolls out of the doors, blond hair whipping around like a weapon all of its own and a giant smile lighting up his face. He's idly twirling Mjölnir around one finger; the fate of the entire heli-carrier depending on the coordination of one god.

I, for one, do not trust the coordination of one Thor Odinson. Especially since I watched him accidentally crush a taxi by leaning against it last week.

So Thor is dangerous, death is imminent, and absolutely nothing is different from normal.

Except for the fact that Loki just entered the room. Even in _my _life, that isn't normal. And what's even less normal, is that someone just touched Phil's Lola without permission. Once upon a time, someone actually scratched Lola, drawing a big white line through the paint on her side with a pair of car keys. Since it was a civilian in the street, they only got a lecture. What you don't realise, is that a lecture from an angry Phil Coulson changes lives.

I bet you can't guess who it is that just touched Lola. Loki you say? Well no fucking shit, you must be the next Sherlock Holmes.

For those of you poor, ignorant souls out there who don't know who Lola is - she's one of Phil's cars. He has a penchant for old things, old gadgets, old watches, old friendships...and anyone that knows anything knows not to touch those things. Especially the cars.

Loki however, is apparently channeling Jon Snow right now, because she knows _nothing_.

And she just slid over Lola's bonnet.

A whisper hisses around the hangar bay, diving inside jeeps and hurtling around quinjets, not audible over the clanking of machinery, but visible in the horrified faces of the agents that stop to stare at Loki, open mouthed and wide-eyed. The god freezes the second her booted feet hit the ground on the other side of the car, searching the air for the source of the horror like a bloodhound scenting for blood. Unfortunately she seems to have removed the Sharpie, pink hair dye and coffee dregs from her person, but it was funny while it lasted.

"Who is that lady?"

"Dead probably."

Thor's shoulders shake with laughter and my eyes flick uneasily to Mjölnir, but the hammer is now safely in Thor's hand, even if it is dangled over the edge of the balcony. "You jest well La- Agent Hill. But I know avoidance of answering when I hear it."

"Do you trust me Thor?"

The question seems to catch the god off guard. "Aye. With my life."

Now it's my turn to laugh. "You trust far too easily Thor."

The blond god shrugs his shoulders and turns back to watch the woman he doesn't know is Loki, with sky blue eyes clouding over in thought. "Aye, putting my trust in those I know not well has landed me in many a trouble, but so has it ceded me many a true friend."

I have to take a moment to translate what Thor just said. "That was even more incomprehensible than usual."

"I try."

Loki starts to slink towards us, sliding through the shadows and setting up tripwires in every which direction, some attached to paint cannons, others to water buckets and laser pointers, and a few simply to freak people out. A small smile permeates her expression, grey eyes twinkling with amusement as she moves, and she doesn't even seem to be concentrating.

"I would swear…" Thor starts but then trails off, biting his lip between ivory teeth as he stares down at the blonde woman making her way closer and closer towards us. And as far as I can tell, she hasn't seen us yet.

In the distance someone screams as their friend pushes them out of the closing hangar door, slamming an quick-attach parachute onto their back with a wicked grin and a yell to have fun. Ah, I remember the time I did that to Fury. Good times, good times.

Loki, on the other hand, has the opposite reaction. Unable to see the frankly hilarious spectacle of someone flailing their way out of the hangar door the god retreats further into the shadows, obviously worried someone has worked out who she is. Which would only be funny, if it hadn't put the God of Mischief right below Mjölnir.

I love it when a plan comes together. "Drop your hammer Thor."

"Excuse me?" the god rumbles.

And I hate it when stupid gods _ruin _my plans with their questionable and only occasionally applicable morals.

"Drop. The. Hammer."

"I could not drop Mjölnir on an innocent-"

"She's not an innocent Thor..." At the defiance in his eyes and the confrontation in the line of his shoulders I realise this line of command isn't going to get anywhere. "For Christ's sake man." Stepping in close I duck past the arm Thor brings up to block me, slam the heel of my foot down on his instep to distract him and then pinch the gap between his thumb and index finger to make him drop the hammer.

It almost misses.

Almost, in this case, is still good enough.

Mjölnir strikes Loki on the shoulder, smashing into the joint with the full weight of the godly weapon and slamming the Trickster onto her back on the cold hard floor. Thor's expression morphs from horror and betrayal to undiluted shock as Loki's concentration _snaps, _grey eyes _burning _green before the rest of his disguise falls away in a shower of green light. Thin lips curl in undisguised irritation as Loki raises his head to examine whatever is pinning him, recognises Mjölnir and lets his head fall back to the floor in resignation.

Even from this height I can tell what Loki groans at the ceiling. "Thor you _imbecile._"

"Loki?" Thor eventually chokes out. He turns to me, arms outstretched and eyes pleading for an explanation. "Agent Hill, how did you-"

I meet his eyes with my don't-fuck-with-me-I'll-eat-you-for-breakfast look firmly in place. "You should have trusted me."

And with that I stalk off the balcony to spread the news.

The Trickster has fallen.

Long live the Queen of Pranking.

(*I*I*I*)

"I despise Midgard." Those are the first words that drip out of Loki's mouth once he's secured in his old (and this time hopefully magic-proof) cage.

"And Midgard despises you sunshine," Clint chirps, bow strung with an arrow and held loosely in hand, "and that's not even our fault."

Loki crosses his vambrace-clad arms across his chest and leans back on one foot, a true picture of relaxation. Slowly, green eyes flick from Avenger to Avenger, analysing everything from the way they hold their weapons to how far apart they stand to Stark playing Angry Birds (Stark edition) on his phone to demonstrate how much more important he is than this conversation.

"So...are we waiting for Fury or…?" Steve looks as though he thinks he should go and fetch the Director, but doesn't really want to.

Before I can admit that I've already messaged Fury (and Phil even though he's on the Bus on the other side of the planet), Loki opens his mouth and drawls "Well I was waiting for the heated accusations of evil and pointed fingers before we get started but as none seem forthcoming…"

Everyone, surreptitiously or not, turns to look at Clint. Clint shrugs. "I don't give a singular flying fuck." A whole host of disbelieving looks are levelled at the archer. "What, do you think that was the first time I've been brainwashed? Try fourth. It's practically just a mild irritation because I have to quit fieldwork for six months and actually go to Psych. I _hate _Psych. Seriously, if you're looking for the person who's going to tear you to shreds and dance on your remains in high heels for brainwashing me, you're looking for Romanoff." The Russian assassin in question grins wickedly from the shadows, flashing white teeth practically the only sign of her presence. "Not that I don't look great in high heels when I'm stomping on people's ashes, but that's beside the point."

"Anybody else?" Loki smiles crookedly and gestures at the cage around him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Other than Thor." Stark slaps the blond god on his armoured shoulder and then tries to conceal his wince of pain. "Sorry dude, but none of us really want to hear the 'Why brother?' 'I'm not your brother!' malarkey again."

"Yes actually." Barnes says, taking a bold step closer to the glass cage. "I have something to say."

"Captain Roger's pet," the villain purrs, "I don't believe we've met."

_Buzz. _My comm vibrates in my ear to warn me that Fury's on the line and he's exceeding even his usual decibel level. With Barnes holding the majority of Loki's attention I retreat back into the corridor, but I don't even try to deceive myself that at least four people in that room didn't sense me leave, no matter how quietly I move. "Director Fury."

"Hill you are so high up on my shit list right now you should be suffering from oxygen deprivation. You knew motherfucking _Loki _was on my ship, you knew that genocidal bastard was prancing around here like he had some god given right and you didn't tell me or even blow his golden ass to kingdom come!"

I know better than to let Fury get properly started on a rant, so I interrupt him at the first opportunity. "He _is _currently in the Cage Director."

"And he better stay in the fucking Cage Agent Hill, or I'll mount your head on my wall in the place of his." he yells, breath steaming loud and heavy down the line. "What the hell were you thinking? Everyone knows you're an impressive negotiator, there's no need to prove it by negotiating with a psychopathic God of fucking Lies!"

"There's no longer a working camera in that corridor." I know he knows what I did, but there's no harm in winding him up a tiny bit. It's a long ingrained habit, I have to take my entertainment where I can.

I can almost see Fury steaming. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid Hill? Do you? No, don't answer that, you obviously think I am otherwise you wouldn't spout such blatant bullshit right to my face! Of course you negotiated with the bastard, I have cameras watching you chase that arsehole out of your 'let's lecture rules at people for half a fucking hour' speech, then you both disappear and then what the fuck do you know, next news you're running a full scale prank war against female Loki with the Avengers and then you accidentally get Thor to catch his brother/not brother! Are you trying to get yourself fired?"

"Well technically sir," I say, fighting to stop a smile breaking out because I know my next words will send his decibel level onto never before seen levels, "since my deception resulted in an apprehension of a wanted criminal, I haven't broken any rules."

"Well _technically_ Agent Hill I can't have you thrown off the top of the heli-carrier, but do you really want to bet on that?" Great, now we're onto threats.

"Director Fury, Loki's in the Cage, no lives have been lost in an unadvisable show of violence and you're free to have him tortured whenever you please."

Apparently Fury knows my tells as well as I know his, because at the shortness of my tone I can almost hear his eyes narrow. "Hill, don't you _dare _hang up on me-"

This time I can't but smirk. "Sorry Fury, but I need to go and keep the Avengers from doing anything even stupider than usual. Hill out."

As I step back into the room, it's to see Romanoff attempting to dodge past Thor with a snarl painted over her features, Barnes and Rogers talking at each other and gesticulating wildly, Stark stood protectively in front of Banner having finally put his phone away, and Clint for some reason is wielding a flare arrow. Loki, for his part, just looks smug to have garnered such a reaction.

I cough, once, and the room falls silent. "Ladies, gentleman and assorted whatever-the-fuck-Loki-is..._what the fuck do you think you are doing_?"

"I'm going to gut a god and make bunting out of his intestines."

"I am going to prevent Lady Romanoff gutting my brother-"

"I am _not _your brother Thor-"

"Loki insinuated that Bruce is just like him, a _monster-_"

"Tony, you're still overreacting-"

"He said Bucky's a killer-"

"Steve I _am _a killer-"

"Flare arrows are cool."

I hold up a hand for silence, and surprisingly everyone, even Loki, complies. The Avengers learnt their lesson about ignoring me after the Explosion Of Epic Proportions, but even I don't know what's going on inside that raven head to get him to listen to me. "All of you," I cock a sceptic eyebrow in Clint's direction, because what the hell is he on about with flare arrows for god's sake, "except Barton, need to learn how to take a chill pill and not rise to every little provocative thing. You as well Loki, just ignore Thor for fuck's sake because if you repeat the words 'I'm not your brother' one more time this is going to turn into a Disney movie. So just zip it."

"To be fair," Romanoff says flatly, with her most deadly expressionless mask in place, "I was planning to gut him long before he opened his mouth to insult us."

"And I will not be dictated to by anyone any longer, especially not by a mere mortal, no matter how much command she has over her own people." Ah, there's the arrogance I was waiting for. Loki draws himself up to his full height, eyes flashing with disdain and chin tilting with princely pride. "Even Asgard itself could not control me nor keep me prisoner against my will, and no Thor, before you open your ill-educated mouth to make some oafish comment, nor will I follow Asgard's...laws…" Loki's jaw drops with realisation before the most truly joyful smile I've ever seen on his face forms and starts to grow larger by the second. "Norn's forgive my stupidity, how could I not have seen this sooner?" I surreptitiously glance over at the Avengers, but they seem just as perplexed by this turn of events as I am.

Only Thor seems to understand what's going on. "Loki you cannot, Father forbids it, if you go against the oath you swore to stay away from her he will be forced to wage war against Vanaheim-"

"And if he does, I will fight beside them. Do not underestimate how far I will go Crown Prince Thor Odinson of Asgard." Loki's expression burns with malicious promise. "You can tell the Allfather yourself that if he orders a single Asgardian boot onto my wife's lands, I will _crush _them all myself. And then," Loki takes a measured step forward, placing both long, pale hands on the glass of his prison, his malevolent smile almost splitting his cheeks in two, "I will come for Asgard." Green fire blooms behind his head and races down his form, wreathing him in unholy flames and sending even more sinister shadows dancing across his face. "_And I will burn it all_."

"Um...sorry to break the dramatic atmosphere…" Stark looks the most awkward I've ever seen the suave businessman look, "...but did you just say _wife_?"

"Yes. Queen Sigyn of Vanaheim, the most beautiful and magically-talented sorceress in all the Nine Realms, does me the eternal honour of being my wife." I only realise what's happening when Loki's waist starts to dissolve into mist, but before I can slam my hand down on the emergency alarm only his head and shoulders are left. "And, of course, our three adopted children." And with that, Loki disappears completely.

As one, everyone in the room turns to look at a trepid Thor.

"Thor, you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

_**So guys…*nervous laugh*...I've been gone a while, even if it was slightly less long than usual...here's the thing. It's exam time coming up. And then afterwards I'm going on holiday for five weeks to Australia. So...I might get something out at the end of July, maybe, if there's wifi in the fucking outback. **_

_**If you liked anything please leave a review. Every time I get a review I try to write 200 words, so more reviews = faster updates!**_


	7. Miracles Don't Just Come From Jesus

_**Haven't had a disclaimer in a while...consider this whole thing disclaimed, forever. Because seriously, look at the website name. No-one on here owns anything. Do we even have to write disclaimers? Someone come back to me on this.**_

_**So I've been writing this for Camp NaNo...yeah, I'm pretty sure my cabin mates think I'm a total nutter. The things I do for you guys...**_

_**Neither me nor my beta, run-robin-run, have had reliable Internet until the 9th of August. I arrived back in the UK on the 10th. This was actually written by the 20th of July, but these things can't be helped. Nevertheless, you have my apologies for the wait.**_

_**And and I have discovered that S.H.I.E.L.D. is spelt like that, with a dot after it as well. *multiple nasty swearwords* I'm just gonna keep spelling it my way though. It's quicker to type. **_

_**Miracles Don't Just Come From Jesus**_

T S Eliot was wrong. The world will not end with a bang, _or _a whimper. Because there's a third option, a third way this little planet of ours will stop spinning around our sun in this happy corner of our universe.

The world will end not with a bang, _or_ with a whimper.

It will end with a _miracle_.

And there's nothing more horrifying, than a miracle.

(*I*I*I*)

Ironically enough, the day starts out slowly, and normally. Two things I wouldn't even get to _think _about for the rest of the day, let alone experience. I got up early, grabbed a coffee, yelled at a few rookies who fucked up a mission in spectacular style by not following S.H.I.E.L.D's clearly laid out protocol, made a start on the day's paperwork, held a meeting with Agent Hand over the necessity of having more quinjets built - you know, the usual.

It starts off, as many of the weirdest things in my life seem to do these days, when I set foot in Avengers Tower. Clutching some files destined for Pepper's desk (that are far too sensitive to be digitised or handed over to a courier for transport) I step into the elevator, already planning out the next deep cover mission into Latveria in the forefront of my mind while studiously ignoring whatever hideous elevator music is trying to invade my eardrums. Because while most things in this tower scream 'understated money' thanks to Pepper's impeccable taste, the music - and my hearing - seem to be fair game for assault.

Stepping out of the doors and onto the Avengers' shared floor is always an _experience _to say the least. I have witnessed everything from semi-naked drinking games to all-out Nerf wars to Thor duct-taped to the ceiling in this room. This time, however, might take the biscuit.

The first thing I register is yelling and cursing, swear words flying as fast as the myriad of weapons currently rocketing around the room. A burst of gunfire from Romanoff lights up the scene, and a painful sounding thump is the first sound I can distinguish from the chaos as Rogers seemingly trips over red light and slams heavily into the floor. A silver blur harasses Thor, darting around the god and forcing a frustrated roar from his lips; Barton is nowhere to be seen but -even as the thought crosses my mind- an arrow streaks down from a nearby vent, though Bruce is seemingly hiding behind a plant pot which can't be good-

Instincts take over as I sense someone behind me. I drop the files I was holding, reach out a hand behind me, grab the presence, shift my weight, roll the figure onto my back and _heave_. Before even my own thoughts can catch up with me, I have a knife pressed to the person's neck as they lie prone at my feet.

Shocked red eyes look up at me, fading to a warm but no less disbelieving brown even as I watch. _Mutant. _And a dangerous one at that.

"Freeze Roadrunner," Stark's voice echoes from his suit, the 'necessary' stupid nickname for the villain ready prepared as per usual, "or your girlfriend is a goner."

The silver blur coalesces into a man, with a silver top, silver hair and a murderous expression in bright blue eyes. "She is my sister," he snarls in a thick Eastern European accent, "and if you do not remove that knife from her neck, you will find it embedded in your chest before you can even blink." But he doesn't move -even though he vibrates on the spot with suppressed energy, hands twitching at his sides- and that in itself speaks volumes about where the power in the room lies.

"Alright kid, I want you to take everything slowly." I try my best to keep an aura of calm authority as I briefly look up from the girl to nail the boy with a flat look. "Hands on your head, then get on your knees."

A growl rumbles in his chest and his eyes flicker around the room, searching for escape, but then he looks down at his sister and his eyes soften. His hands migrate to the top of his head and his knees hit the floor with a thud. Romanoff wastes no time in handcuffing both his wrists and his ankles together with S.H.I.E.L.D issue handcuffs that should mute, if not totally suppress, his powers. Barton rolls out of the vent closest to me in complete silence, catching the handcuffs thrown his way on the fly and quickly securing the young woman at my feet. Thor and Rogers manhandle the boy onto the floor next to his sister, and I watch with interest as they both palpably relax at the other's proximity. Siblings, or possibly twins, that actually like each other and fight side by side in relative harmony. Only great adversity can temper the natural sibling tendency towards arguing to such a degree, and I hate to think what these kids have been through to make them try to take on the Avengers alone.

Noticing the Avengers are all looking at me expectantly, I raise my eyes from the two mutants, pithy comments germinating in the back of my mind. But in the end, there's only one thing that's totally appropriate to say.

"What the _hell _is going on here?"

(*I*I*I*)

"Primary intelligence reveals these two are Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, a pair of eighteen year old twins orphaned by the civil war in Sokovia, Eastern Europe. They've been on the radar for a while for leading anti-US and anti-foreign interference protests in their homeland that can get pretty violent on occasion. I won't insult your intelligence by relating all the facts about the civil war, but I can explain why they hate America, and the Avengers, so much." Agent Malek -who I had promoted last week- spins his tablet around to show me the screen.

A large black bomb sits in the middle of the screen, the lethal weapon perched precariously on a pile of rubble and what looks like shattered dinner plates. Two words stand out in bright white along the side. _Stark Industries_.

The Intelligence agent declines to take the tablet back when I offer it to him and continues his report. "They spent two days looking at this unexploded bomb after another one thirty seconds beforehand blew both their house and their parents to kingdom come. It's enough to fuel anyone's lifelong hatred, let alone convince them to take up with HYDRA in order to get superpowers. Their rescuers took the picture after the bomb was disabled."

"I know."

Green eyes widen in surprise. "You do?" Then he seems to remember who he's talking to, and scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "I mean, uh, you probably did your own research already-"

"No Agent Malek," I say with an understanding that doesn't often permeate my tone when someone is making a fool of themselves, "I know about that photo because I'm the one that took it."

And with that, having gathered all the relevant information and with Fury's penchant for dramatic exits having rubbed off on me, I sweep out of the hallway and into the viewing room attached to the Maximoff's cell, closing the door sharply and leaving an open-mouthed and very confused Agent Malek staring after me.

Oh, who am I even kidding? I love dramatic exits. And I'm damn good at them too.

"So?" My smugness fades immediately as I realise that I'm going to have to explain all this to the Avengers -to Stark. How do you explain to a fundamentally good man that he killed the parents of the kids sat in front of him? I've done it before, but I've never done it to someone who cares. Not someone who will turn it into a weapon of self-hatred and use it to destroy themselves with, anyway. Stark is no longer the Merchant of Death, but a Purveyor of Self Hatred. And he's just as good at it as he was at his old job.

But in my position, you get used to doing things that you don't want to do.

"Their names are Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. Orphaned at ten when a shell collapsed their apartment building in their homeland's ongoing civil war. Sokovia's had a rough history. It's nowhere special but it's on the way to everywhere special, which makes it a prime target for everyone from-"

"The missile," Stark interrupts, his face sheet white and his fingers nervously playing with his collar, "the shell, whatever blew up that building. Did it, I mean was it..."

In answer, I simply tilt my screen slightly and show him, and only him, the picture.

Stark turns an interesting shade of green and bolts out of the door. The other Avengers shout after him with a worried chorus of "Stark!" and "Tony!" Quietly, I turn off my tablet. What the Avengers don't know has a large chance of hurting them, but this is Stark's business, and it's his choice when to face his team. He needs time to pull himself together.

Barton turns on me with furrowed eyebrows, the other Avengers following his lead. "Hill, what on earth did you just show him?"

"Something very common called 'None of your business'." There's a moment where everyone in the room exchanges exasperated but resigned looks. No-one gets information out of me that I don't want to give, and most know better than to try.

Timidly, Barnes speaks up, still not quite sure about his knowledge of social etiquette. "Shouldn't someone go after him?"

The room, as one, turns to Banner as Stark's designated 'ScienceBro'. The doctor shrugs, looking pained but resigned, his too-big suit jacket slipping over his shoulders. "If I go after him now, he'll do his level best to get rid of me or provoke a Hulk-sized incident. I'll track him down later and try to drag him out of whatever crazy emotional spiral he's currently going into by chucking a couple of difficult projects at him that he has to collaborate on. We've still got some research -well, I say _some_, more like we don't understand any of it beyond maybe a quarter of the basics- on Loki and his magic that's brain bending enough to yank anyone out of a funk."

"Speaking of the twins;" Steve asks with an admirable attempt at redirecting the room's attention from Stark, "their abilities?"

"He's got increased metabolism and improved homeostasis, her thing is neural electrical interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation..." I notice the blank looks on the faces of every hero in the room, and switch to a more simple explanation. "He's fast, and she's weird."

"So, a telepathic telekinetic and a speedster?" Barton looks concerned. "Those are some pretty powerful mutations. Hill, if you hadn't arrived when you did...we could've had another Dark Phoenix incident on our hands."

I exchange dark looks with both members of Strike Team Delta. The Dark Phoenix saga was not a fun time. Reasons not to trust Charles Xavier when he says all his students have their powers under control? Case in fucking point. You see how your boss likes it when Magneto rips up the Golden Gate Bridge with an (admittedly clever) pun, and then an 'evil' Jean Grey nearly destroys the planet, then dies (again) and comes back to life (again). I swear the entrance to mutant heaven isn't so much St. Peter's pearly gates as a revolving door; as soon as they're in, they're straight back down here again, causing havoc with my paperwork.

If the Maximoff twins are powerful enough to replicate that, which I strongly suspect they are... yeah, not good. For us, or for the planet.

"So," asks Thor, his stormy eyes wandering back to stare at the extremely powerful kids sitting behind the observation glass, "what shall we do?"

"I'm going to go and talk to them." I say.

"You?"

"Me." I confirm sharply, before raising an eyebrow. "I'm not an Avenger, so they should be _slightly_ more reasonable towards me, and I'm also highly trained in both interrogation and negotiation in case they _are_ representing the Brotherhood of Mutants, HYDRA, or anyone else that's looking for a fight. Besides, I know them."

"You know them?!"

The other eyebrow moves towards my hairline and I fix all of the Avenger's with a sarky look. "I don't know why you sound so surprised; _I_ know everyone."

And with that, I turn on my heel and, with a swipe of my card, walk into the Maximoff's cell, leaving a room full of superheroes staring after me.

Daily dramatic exit count: 2. Target: 3.

I am so on this.

(*I*I*I*)

Two pairs of smoldering eyes glare up at me, hatred written in every line of the two figures handcuffed to the table in front of them, power-suppressing collars gleaming silver around their necks. To be fair to them, if I had superpowers, I wouldn't be impressed with anyone who took them away.

Then again, if I had superpowers, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to attack the Avengers.

Just saying.

"Wanda and Pietro Maximoff."

"We are aware of who we are," drawls Wanda, eyes flat and unimpressed.

"What we want to know," Pietro continues, "is who you are." In synchronisation the duo cock their heads to the left as if in question, expressions just the tiniest bit smug. They know exactly how disconcerting they are, and they revel in it.

Unfortunately for them, I've dealt with far worse than 'disconcerting'.

If Coulson were here, he'd waste time with pleasantries. Apologise for the cuffs, ask them about themselves, sweet-talk them into giving him every single piece of information he wanted without them even realising that the kindly middle-aged man chatting with them was ruthlessly exploiting everything they said. My methods of interrogation are a lot more straightforward. With kids, anyway. Because we don't torture kids.

I sit down across from them, the perfect image of someone who knows that they're a number and not a name. An agent, not a person. "Why don't you tell me about the day your parents died?"

"Why," spits Pietro, almost vibrating with anger, the change from the earlier eerie calm fast enough to make my head spin, "so you can gloat? Laugh? Be proud of what your country has done?"

"No?" I pause, sweeping my eyes between them as if waiting for a response I know won't be coming. Not yet, anyway. "Okay then. How about the day you were rescued?"

"What d-" Both of the twins stare at me in shocked realisation, jaws dropping and eyes widening. It would be comic, if not for the gravity of the situation.

"You," they whisper in synchronisation.

I smile without a trace of humour. "Me."

"How did you-"

"Are you not-"

"-save us-"

"-Sokovian-"

"-from that bomb-"

"-obviously-"

"-foreign spy-"

"_-American_."

"_-American_."

I look them straight in the eyes, first Wanda, and then Pietro. Brown eyes, then blue. They should've been completely different from each other, even if they are twins, but both pairs are world-weary, anger-ridden and full of distrust. They may be children in age, but they have seen more horror than most people ever will in their entire lifetime. Unfortunately for them, looking at them is like looking at myself in a mirror, and that's something I wouldn't wish on anyone. I feel some kind of connection with these kids, the kind that comes from saving someone's life at the risk of your own, and to be frank, I don't want all my hard work keeping them alive to go to waste.

"From all that, the fact I saved you from an unexploded bomb, the sheer coincidence that out of thousands of agents it's me sat in front of you now, the fact that I probably saved your lives once already today and that right now I'm trying to do it again, and all you care about is my nationality. I'm American, and it's the end of the world." I look up at the ceiling, silently asking every god I don't know personally for strength. "I hoped you'd be a little smarter than that."

"Americans killed our parents. Blew up our house. Destroyed our village. Gave arms to both sides in our war so that they could rape our neighbour and kill her child. We have seen families blown to pieces on mountainsides for 'smuggling' and watched our fledgling rebellion be torn apart by your so-called peace talks." The young woman opposite me speaks calmly, stating the facts as she sees them with an expression set like stone and a glare just as forbearing. "And you believe that we should not hold a grudge."

"Oh no, you can hold a grudge. In fact, I fully expect you to. Forgiveness is for people who can afford it, and forgetting is for idiots. But I want you to question what you think you know. Life isn't black and white, it's a grey scale." I point at myself to illustrate my point. "I'm American, and I saved your lives."

"And why, I wonder, were you in Sokovia in the first place?" Pietro spits his words quickly, like machine gun fire.

Like machine gun fire, I answer with my own volley. "I was on a mission -a S.H.I.E.L.D mission before you say anything, not an American one. I was staying in a house on your street, hell, I gave the chocolate I'd smuggled into the country to your mother after she sassed off a policeman who was determined to get into my bed one way or another. When your house went up…" I sigh, and resist the urge to run my hands through my hair, "I had orders not to draw attention to myself, but I reasoned that it wouldn't hurt to help dig through the rubble. The police weren't there, nor the fire service -they were just stretched too thin. Just me, and your neighbours, digging with our hands and the odd garden shovel. We were looking for bodies when we heard you shout a warning about the unexploded bomb. I'd never contravened a direct order from the Director before, but you were just kids and there was no-one else around who could even begin to disable a bomb." I smile wryly. "We thought we'd only find corpses, but instead we found you two clinging to life with all the determination on God's earth. How could I not help?"

Their hostility seems softened, but not gone. Good. I would have thought less of them if they gave up on their cause so easily, even if it would make my life easier.

Wanda speaks again, but this time, it's softer, more like a real question than an accusation, even with the heat behind it. "And why did your S.H.I.E.L.D think adding yet another foreign spy to the mix would help our country in the slightest?"

"Or, let me guess," Pietro raises a scornful silver eyebrow, "you did not think your presence would help Sokovia in the slightest. And you did not care."

"Or perhaps I was a low ranking agent, who didn't know the full picture but trusted in my superiors enough to follow orders in the belief that what I was doing would help both Sokovia and the world. I got told to lay low and integrate myself with the locals, so I did. I got told to find my way into the Free Sokovian Army, so I did. I got told to disrupt their activities for as long as possible, so I blew up their entire weapons stockpile and poisoned their water supply." Both of them smile appreciatively, and then try to hide them behind frowns. But I saw them. That explosion rocked the whole mountain range and the capital city: it was a good day's work, even if I do say so myself.

"That did not stop them though, the Free Sokovian Army." This time, Wanda's smile is bitter and small. "They are not free, or Sokovian. Russians mostly, from the Kremlin and the KGB. Or at least they were, before they...disappeared."

"It was so distressing," Pietro continues, "especially when the vast majority of the Grand European Alliance disappeared off the face of the earth on the same day. Honestly, it was as though someone just wanted to make our country safer and free it from the two warring parties that had been destroying it between them for over a decade." He grins then, a cheeky, mischievous grin that's razor sharp around the edges, a smile so similar to Barton's that I almost do a double-take. "Whoever it was, I would very much like to clap them on the back."

"And I would like to slap them upside the head for being a stupid, reckless idiot." The two siblings glare at each other with no real anger, and that is all I, or anyone else with half a brain, needs to know to understand the situation.

22 years old, orphaned, traumatised by war. Survivors, the world's first man-made mutants, and -apparently- the reason why Sokovia's civil war recently went very quiet. I don't say it often, but I'll say it now: I am damn impressed. "I didn't hear that. In fact, it wasn't even recorded." I glare pointedly up at the camera in the corner of the room and through it to the ISO (Internal Security Operative) who will -if they know what's good for them- delete that particular few seconds of footage. "But if I had heard it, I would cheerfully applaud _those people_. Sometimes, politics stops S.H.I.E.L.D from doing what we plan to, but I think _those people_ just unknowingly carried out our plan anyway. Good for them, protecting their country from the insurgents tearing it apart. Now charities can begin sending in more aid without placing their volunteers in as much danger, and S.H.A.P.E should have enough wriggle room to clear out the rest of the bastards. The actions of _those people_ will probably have further reaching effects than they could've hoped for, especially if I have anything to do with it. Such bravery, daring and sheer idiocy deserve rewards after all, but since I obviously don't know who _those people_ are, S.H.I.E.L.D will have to settle for helping Sokovia instead."

The twins look at each other, disbelief turning into wary hope in their faces. Pietro smiles first, 'I told you so' written all over his lopsided grin and raised silver eyebrows, and Wanda, as I suspect she always does, follows, the resigned twitch of her lips displaying 'maybe you were right, idiot' as clear as any banner, in the manner known to the sensible sibling everywhere.

"Maybe, if we ever meet again, you can tell me some more about _those people_ and how you suspect they accomplished taking out both sides of a civil war between them." What? I do have files to compile after all; I need to know these things. And if those files disappear into the area accessible only to me, well, no-one needs to know that they ever existed in the first place, now do they?

"This is great and everything, like very great," Pietro tugs against his cuffs and lets them jangle against the table for emphasis, "but can you _please_ take these off now. I've been reduced to the pace of a snail and it is driving me crazy. I honestly do not know how any of you people deal with it."

"Somehow, I really don't think that's going to happen, do you?" I say, and Pietro slumps in his seat, disappointed and churlish. "I still have questions, questions that need truthful answers if you ever want to get out of here."

They exchange looks, silent communication passing between them. "Continue," Wanda says, "we are listening."

"HYDRA." The word makes them both flinch and shift closer to each other protectively, and if they had their hands free, I would bet good money that Pietro would pull his sister into a hug. "They gave you your powers-"

Wanda's expression closes down and Pietro's voice trembles with emotion, his accent getting thicker and thicker with every word. "_Gave_ us? HYDRA gave us nothing. When we signed up, no, when _I_ signed up and persuaded Wanda to follow me, we thought we were signing up for S.H.I.E.L.D. We thought we were signing up to save our country. We thought, _I_ thought, we might become Sokovia's Captain America. They told us that they were the organisation who gave him his powers, and that they could do the same for us. We thought we were signing up to be heroes." His voice quietens, and his blue eyes drop to the table. "We signed up for hell."

"During our…" Wanda scowls, and clicks her fingers impatiently. "I do not know your word for this. Education, but it is...it was unpleasant. And wrong."

"Indoctrination," I supply, with a voice far softer than I want it to be.

Wanda nods in thanks, but she still looks haunted. "During our _indoctrination _was the first time we discovered who was experimenting on us. HYDRA. _Nazis_. We are Eastern Europeans -those scum killed our countrymen and used our lands to kill innocent men, women and children in their camps for nothing more than their religion. When we found out, we fought. We _all_ fought. We started with twelve, but there were only seven left by that stage. After we fought back, there were only four." Angrily, she wipes a tear away on her shoulder, her bound hands unable to do the job. Her brother looks at her, agony both at the memories and his sister's pain gleaming in his eyes and evident in the way he leans as close to her as his restraints will allow.

"We did not know their names; we cannot even pray for them. In the end, three of us developed powers. Myself, Wanda, and a boy named Raphael. He was perhaps twelve," Pietro draws in a shaky breath, "and a devout Catholic. He was just like us: orphaned, alone and patriotic. Desperate. But too young. He was so, very _young_." His voice cracks over the last word. "He died during the final tests. We could hear him screaming. For a pause. For help." He's whispering now. "For us."

"We weren't supposed to communicate, but my telepathy, and our twin bond...we promised each other right then that we'd play along. Conform to the tests. Run faster. Break more. And then," Wanda draws herself up straighter, shoulders back and head held high, "when we had the chance...we swore to destroy them. And so we did."

"There are no records of a HYDRA facility in Sokovia." My brain whirs. All the chaos, the improbability of the continuous civil war bubbling on and on and on, even when both factions were totally routed...could HYDRA have been causing them all along? Had the suffering of millions been no more than an elaborate distraction? And worse, had we fallen for it?

"Well, there isn't much of a facility left, but you can put the rubble in your _records _if you like." Pietro smiles his Barton smile again, all sharp corners and dangerous mirth.

"Who was in charge of the facility?" Under the table, I cross my fingers. Please don't be Viper, _please_ don't be Viper. I can live with a lot of things. If something is necessary, it's necessary. But whatever Viper did in all those years I failed to catch her? Each and every thing she did is on my hands. And what happened to the Maximoff twins? To tiny Raphael? To the whole of Sokovia?

I'm not sure I can live with that.

"He was a German. Called Baron von Strucker."

The tension drops from my shoulders. It wasn't Viper. It wasn't me.

"Of course," I say, and thank god my voice sounds as firm as it normally does, because I can't go and show weakness now, "the last remaining Nazi. Cap will be pleased. S.H.I.E.L.D will be pleased; we've been looking for that bastard for decades. Alright, next question. How did HYDRA give you -sorry- your powers?"

"We lived in cells, separate from each other, for months. Their scientists came and went as they pleased -we did not. At first it was benign things they wanted: tissue samples, muscle samples, family histories. These things, we gave willingly. After, it was tests. Endurance tests, intelligence measurements, survival instincts. These things, we gave out of fear, once we learnt what they did to those who failed. In hindsight, at this stage, it is obvious that they were weeding out the weak." There's no self pity in Pietro's voice, only cold, as if he can freeze out the pain. Numb himself to it.

Wanda picks up the narrative. "This was the stage when there were seven of us left, when they began 'teaching' us the 'real' truth. This was when we fought against them. This was when our number was cut down to four. We didn't fight again. How could we? We were far too busy surviving the next round of tests."

"They came in the night, then, dragging us out of our cells and tossing us into a strange room like so much rubbish. I was so happy -I had my sister in my arms for the first time in eternity, and she did not hate me, even though I had failed her so badly." Wanda smiles softly at her brother, forgiveness radiating from every pore. She doesn't try to negate his guilt, or dissuade him from owning it. She simply forgives him, and that makes it all the sweeter. "But then they filled the room with a strange gas, and then lowered something unearthly into the room. From what I could make out, it was long, like a stick, with a glowing blue stone on the end."

Like a stick? Like a sceptre. Icy air washes over me. _Loki's sceptre_.

When was the last time anyone checked the Freezer?

"I could not see much," Pietro continues, a mirthless smile sliding onto his features, "because I was busy screaming in agony. But I can tell you that it drove the fourth experiment mad, whatever it was, so mad that they had to put her down like a rabid dog. And so, there were three of us left, all with superpowers. Myself, Wanda, and Raphael."

"What could Raphael do?" I feel slightly bad questioning the twins about the dead little boy who suffered alongside them, but I need to know the full extent of what Loki's sceptre can do to people. What powers it can give them.

"As he put it, Hell had given him Heaven's wrath flowing through his veins. He was like Raphael, the archangel -the Wrath of God." Wanda can't stop the tears now, and has all but given up on wiping them on her jacket. She's smiling through it though -quoting this lost friend of hers is obviously reminding her of at least one fond memory.

"He was a pyrokinetic." I assert, and I know I'm right when no correction comes. Three unusually strong mutations out of three. What are the chances? Either HYDRA had somehow managed to pick out three people with extremely strong latent X-genes, something I don't understand at all is going on here, or we are in very big trouble. Possibly all three. "I'm sorry for interrupting, I know this must be hard. Please, continue."

"Developing powers was not enough for HYDRA. No, they wanted to know how we had gained our powers, how they worked, their limits, and how they could weaponise them. Even in Sokovia we saw and heard what Magneto put on television about the horrors of mutant testing facilities." Wanda's gaze turns distant. "It was much like that, really. What I wouldn't have given for Magneto to have come tearing through the walls to save us, too."

I take that as my cue to leave. I point blank refuse to sit here and defend a supervillain/terrorist/ general asshole as to why he didn't save the very people he should have been saving. Who cares if they were born mutants, or made into them? They're still mutants. "Thank you for answering my questions. If there's nothing else-"

"Actually, there is something else."

"Something that will probably be important to you."

"If you put Stark within our reach-"

"-we will kill him in the same way we killed Strucker."

The twins lock eyes with me, eyes narrowed in promise. "They are the same type of man, after all."

"Once, I would've agreed with you there. God, Stark was the biggest pain in my ass when I first started rising through S.H.I.E.L.D's ranks; it seemed like everywhere I looked his weapons were being used to do something terrible. I held him personally responsible in fact, just like you do. But then I found out something, something that changed my whole viewpoint. Stark didn't _know_. He didn't know about the underground market for his weapons, he didn't know they were being sold under the table to the highest bidder. He thought, as he was designing them, that they were _saving_ lives."

"Ignorance is not innocence." Pietro's voice is sure, but all the anger has dropped out of the siblings' bodies. It's hard to realise that the face of your anger might not be as guilty as you thought, but these two are smart enough to not hold unfounded grudges. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

"It's not, you're right. But ever since he found out, he's been risking his own life to try and make amends. Iron Man? That's the only weapon he manufactures nowadays, and he destroys the caches of his illegally sold merchandise wherever he finds them. What happened to you? Right now, he's tearing himself up about it, that I can guarantee you." I hold up a hand as they both open their mouths to interject. "I know he should feel guilty about it, and I know that's the least he should do. But he's doing something, and that's more than most people on this damn planet."

"We will consider your words."

"And I'll consider yours. Now," I flash a genuine smile, "as I see it, you have two choices from here on out. One, you continue to cooperate, and since the Avengers inevitably won't press charges, you can return home and continue running your resistance movement, but this time with as much help as we can surreptitiously give you."

I wait a few seconds for dramatic effect. Pietro obviously can't wait that long, and obliges by asking, "And our second choice?"

My grin grows wider. "Well, I'm sure Captain America and the rest of the Avengers will want to speak to you."

"Us?" Surprise crosses their features, followed by fear and suspicion. "Why?"

"To talk to you about the Avengers Initiative of course."

Two jaws drop simultaneously, but before the questions can begin to spill out of them, I stand up and walk smoothly out of the room. The Avengers immediately stare at me, expressions ranging from distress at the experimentation (Banner) to approval at their destruction of HYDRA (Rogers) to understanding of what they've been through (Natasha). Barton mainly looks confused as to what to feel, like he's just lost a lot of money to the S.H.I.E.L.D betting pool about the probability of new Avengers, and isn't too happy about it, but also thinks these kids are gonna be great fun.

My emotions are split. On one hand, whatever the Maximoff twins decide to do, they'll do it well. Anyone ballsy enough to attack all of the Avengers at once on their home turf, and smart enough to actually make a pretty good job of it, will do fine in this world. Saviours of a country, or Avengers. Pretty lofty ambitions, but they can make it together, I'm sure of it. On the other hand, whichever they choose, I'm sure it'll be a great big pain in the paperwork.

And, whichever they choose, I've got to go and talk to Stark.

Yipee.

The Avengers are still stood around staring at me with their varying looks of compassion/approval/empathy/irritated glee. Obviously, my dramatic exit from the Maximoff's cell was just that good. Three out of three dramatic exits, target complete. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Rogers looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. "I can't believe you just gave us roundabout permission to adopt these two waifs and strays, even though we would've..." He trails off awkwardly.

"Asked them anyway?" Natasha raises one eyebrow in amusement. "Because Hill's smart. And she knows us. And she likes them."

"Hill likes them?" Barton pretends to faint in shock. "Hill doesn't like anyone!"

"Except paperwork." Barnes throws his hands in the air when the room turns to look at him, the metal one glinting under the light. "What, I can't make stupid jokes now? I call ageism."

"You're damn right grandpa." Barton flings a hand around the other assassin's shoulders and steers him into the Maximoff's cell. "C'mon, let's go. Hey, you can even tell these kids what it was like back in the good old days."

"Barton, I swear on Steve's spangly shield..."

Steve follows his teammates with a sigh and a grudging smile. "Buck, that line wasn't funny seventy years ago, and it still isn't now."

"I guess we'd better go and make sure there's some common sense in that room before the twins' brains start leaking out of their ears from all the mindless drivel. C'mon Bruce." Natasha beckons the scientist over, and together they leave the room.

And just like that, I'm alone with my thoughts.

Still better than talking to Stark though.

Ugh, this is gonna suck.

(*I*I*I*)

"Stark?" My voice drifts around the seemingly empty lab, disturbing the gentle humming of the equipment. If the scientists in the main lab hadn't told me he had coming running in here looking like he was about to puke an hour ago, I never would've thought to look in here. Stark is always so _loud_. This quiet, with him in it, is unnerving.

"Fuck off Hill."

I smirk to myself. Left side of the room, somewhere near the floor. "That's not how you should talk to a lady."

Stark harrumphs. "If you're a lady then I'm a goddamn porcupine." There, behind those workbenches in the furthest corner.

"Well, you sure are prickly enough." I round the corner and look down at the genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist sat leaning against the wall, curled up as though he wants to disappear. I cock a hip and rest my hand on it. "Found you."

Instead of reacting, the usually unstoppable bundle of energy just closes his eyes. "Can't you take a hint?"

"Can _you_? Because you and I are more similar than you might think." Moving to stand next to him, I slide down the workbench until my butt hits the floor, and swing my arms casually over my knees. This isn't my natural commanding position, but for this kind of talk it will have to do.

"Really?" He laughs dryly and without humour. "Did you find out you orphaned two kids today too? We must be _twins_." Stark winces at the poor choice of words, and stops talking.

'Stark' and 'stops talking' are two phrases I never thought I'd see apply to each other. And yet, here we are. The Merchant of Death, who has nightmares about the people he has killed, and the spy, who sends thousands of kill orders out everyday without even blinking. Sat side by side, one riddled with guilt like bullet holes, and the other unyielding like diamond. Both of them are guilty. And yet only one of them feels it.

"I orphan children everyday Stark."

"Yeah, but that's _necessary_, right?" I must look startled, because he smirks in spite of himself. "C'mon Hill, it's practically your catchphrase: "I do what's necessary'. But was it _necessary_ that my weapons -the weapons I made my fortune on, the weapons I designed myself- killed innocent civilians? Of course it wasn't. God, how can I have been so fucking stupid? What kind of genius does that make me."

"A guilty one." His head snaps up to stare at me, eyes wide and full of hurt. "Look, you know me: I don't sugarcoat. I'm gonna tell you like it is, and you're gonna know it's the truth, and not some useless attempt to placate you or make you feel better. That's why I'm here, and not Pepper or Rhodey or one of the Avengers. Me and you, we don't even like each other. Heck, if you weren't my business, I wouldn't give a shit. But you are my business, so listen the fuck up. These two kids, they think they hate you, America, and every single foreigner that's ever even thought about Slokovia. But what they really hate is that missile, and the company that built it. You aren't your company Stark, you can't be responsible for every single one of your employees and their actions. You can't stop Bob in Marketing cheating on his wife because he got too big for his boots after a pay rise anymore than you can stop Jimmy in R&amp;D building a dangerous lab in his kitchen and poisoning his own stupid ass. You wouldn't know about these things until the situation imploded. Same with your weapons. When you found out, you immediately tried to stop Obadiah Stane, and he nearly killed you for it."

"Some days I think I deserved that."

"Deserved what, nearly dying? Yeah, maybe you did. But the key emphasis there is on _nearly_. You are _alive_, Tony Stark. What would dying -really dying- have solved? You can't make amends from the afterlife." I smack him on the shoulder when his eyes drop to the floor, and glare at him until -reluctantly- he meets my gaze. "But here and now, you can apologise to those kids, say 'I'm sorry for the pain I and my company have caused you' and explain what happened. They won't forgive you, they shouldn't _have_ to forgive you; forgiveness isn't obligatory. But show them you're sorry. Help Sokovia. Help every nation you bombed, and not just as Iron Man. Iron Man, to be frank, is for you. Invest more in the Maria Stark Foundation, spread it everywhere and let it do everything for the people that need its help. And don't get Pepper or J.A.R.V.I.S to handle it. Do it yourself."

Stark tries desperately to smile in his usual carefree way, but it's far too shaky to be convincing. "You're pretty good at this feelings stuff, for the Ice Queen."

I could make a sharp comment, just like I normally would, but now is not the time. I want to, don't get me wrong. But Stark has been taken down enough pegs already today. Very, very occasionally, I don't mind helping people haul themselves back up one. "I had to learn something from Phil after far too many years of being partners. Otherwise it would've been inefficient."

He snorts, real amusement sneaking through his self pity for the first time. "'_Inefficient_'? Does everything you say sound like a goddamn robot spat it out first, or is it just me."

"You've seen the S.H.I.E.L.D betting pool on me being a cyborg," I reply, "and it's a pretty big pool. You know it's not just you that thinks that."

"What, you're saying that you know about the betting pools, and they're still around?" Stark's tone is the perfect blend of genuine surprise and flat out teasing.

"Don't be dense. The S.H.I.E.L.D betting pools have been around long before I arrived, and will be thriving long after I've gone." I pause for a second or two. "But I might have contributed to them. A lot."

"Maria Hill, breaking rules? Well I never."

"Technically," I say primly, which is pretty difficult when you're sat slouching on the floor, "there are no explicit rules against the betting pools."

"And if there was a rule?"

"Then so many agents would get fired for betting in them anyway that there wouldn't be a S.H.I.E.L.D left to enforce the rules."

"Tell me something true about yourself." The command comes suddenly, without warning, and seemingly out of nowhere. I look at Stark, one raised eyebrow demanding that he explain himself. "Aw c'mon, you probably know my entire life story down to what grades I got at school, and I know zip about you. You talk straight until anyone asks anything about you, and then you talk in so many circles that they get dizzy and drop off. Like right then: you just evaded everything I asked you so neatly I barely noticed it, and I'm pretty well versed in bullshit. I can't trust that."

I take a deep breath. He wants the truth? Fine, he can have it. Doesn't mean I can't still turn it to my advantage though. "Before I was in S.H.I.E.L.D-"

"You were in a test tube experiment to create the perfect agent?"

I glare at him until his self-satisfied smirk dies a little on his face, framed by that stupid goatee. 'I'll take that as a compliment and try to resist the urge to rip off your head for interrupting me. Now, before I was in S.H.I.E.L.D, I was in the Marines. This seventeen year old titch in a squad with thirteen huge, burly ex-soldiers and only one other woman between them." I try my best not to let the memories overwhelm me as I talk about my old squad, try to keep my expression unreadable and my voice level. My time in the Marines did not end well -in my life, things rarely do. "They were great, I had the time of my life in training and in our early missions; we were like a little family. But that's not the..." I force a shaky breath out through my teeth, "that's not the point I'm trying to make. Like all good soldiers, we played poker, and we didn't play for money. Better chores, favourable shifts, hot showers were all up for grabs. But the highest prize of all was being the first squad to try out the new Stark weaponry. Benji and I were the King and Queen of poker, the dream team everyone wanted to beat but no-one could. God, those were the days." I turn to the superhero next to me, and fix him as best I can with a truly earnest look. "Nowadays I think you only get to hear about the harm your weapons have done, but Stark, they also saved lives. Hammer tech?"

He snorts derisively, real disgust evident in the scrunching of his nose and the curling of his lip. "Pieces of shit."

"Exactly. And he's completely taking over the weapons market after you backed out. When I was in Marines and we underwent budget cuts, we had to deal with Hammer tech for three months." Stark and I share a shudder. "Grenades exploding in people's faces, missiles backfiring, target systems firing on our own troops...there were hardened Marines who would kill you as soon as shake your hand practically crying with joy when they finally got that first shipment of Stark tech back. And now? What choice does the army have but to buy Hammer tech?"

The billionaire looks thoughtful now, the self-hatred diminished in his expression, overtaken by the shrewd plotting he has always been good at (even if he pretends otherwise). I took what Banner said about distracting him with science, changed it around to something I understood, and put my plan into action. And it worked perfectly -where's that depressed spiral of self-loathing now? Nowhere, that's where. Who says Romanoff is the only master manipulator around here?

"So, ignoring the whole mushy backstory reminiscing, what I'm saying is that yes, your weapons have done bad things. Yes, you need to work to fix that. But think about the good things they've done too. Think about why you started revolutionising the weapons market originally," I see him open his mouth to interrupt but intercept him before he can even get the first syllable out, "and don't give me that bullshit about just being greedy, because I can read body language well enough to know you actually believed some of the 'American dream' bullshit you used to spew all over the news." He closes his mouth, and I resist the urge to smirk smugly. Not the time Hill, not the time. "The knee jerk reaction of stopping producing weapons is the easy way out. So use that big brain of yours and figure out a better solution to all this. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am." He snaps a languid salute, all sarcastic smile and relaxed edges, but his eyes tell a different story. Brown irises speak all the heartfelt thank you's that Stark can't, or won't, say out loud.

"Right then." I haul myself to my feet and hold out a hand to help up the billionaire, who takes it without a second's hesitation. "I need to get out of here pronto before anyone sees us being all cosy together and the S.H.I.E.L.D rumour mill starts spouting theories like crazy. And I don't know about you, but I am very scared of your girlfriend."

"Pepper? She wouldn't believe any rumour that there was anything going on between us." Stark shakes his head in disbelief, his nose scrunched up in a way that would be offensive if it wasn't so welcome. If there's one thing I don't need in my life, it's some egotistical attempt by a bored billionaire to seduce me. Thank god he's so in love with Pepper.

Nevertheless, I raise an eyebrow. "With your reputation?"

"With yours?" he shoots straight back, mirroring my expression.

I blink, not understanding his insinuation. "_My_ reputation?"

"Oh come off it Hill, you and I both know that you'd eat me -and any other guy or girl that tried to flirt with you- alive. Pepper knows it too, she's got some kind of radar for this kind of thing." He grins widely, white teeth flashing in that extraordinarily famous smile. "Besides, you have _way_ too little patience to put up with my bullshit."

I fix him with a long, flat look. "I haven't shot you yet, have I?" Noticing a figure in the doorway, I turn to face it, and -recognising Banner fiddling awkwardly with his ill-fitting suit collar- nod politely. "Banner."

The scientist politely inclines his head in return. "Hill."

"Right, I'll leave you boys to it. Have fun, and _try_ not to put anymore holes in my ship. Oh, and Stark?" We lock eyes, both the billionaire and the spy for once wearing open, honest expressions. "Use that big brain of yours."

"Whatever you say Hill, whatever you say."

(*I*I*I*)

Three days later I find myself standing on the platform high above Training Room C, the room empty of its usual high level agents and is instead stuffed to the brim with Avengers. For some reason Captain Rogers seems to think that my invitation to allow the twins to join the team also extended to James 'Rhodey' Rhodes aka War Machine and Sam Wilson aka Falcon, both of whom will need immediate file updates and a thorough background check before I'll even consider okaying that decision, but...I suppose we'll see.

A silver blur dashes haphazardly around the room, a delighted voice with a strong Sokovian accent crying out, "Hit me Barton, you know that you want to!" The archer follows the blur avidly, his intense focus evident in his icy cool stare, a boxing glove arrow strung on his bow. He draws in a deep breath and lets the arrow fly, breaking out into a huge, taunting grin when a surprised yell echoes around the room as Pietro is sent sprawling on his ass, looking none too happy about it.

Wanda is close to her twin, as she always is, slowly working through various basic martial arts moves with Natasha, a frown of concentration on the young mutant's face. When Wanda performs a move perfectly, landing the Black Widow herself on her back, a low word of congratulation passes between them, and the younger woman lights up like a Christmas tree at the praise.

Rogers is putting Falcon through a tough workout, throwing his famous shield again and again at the flying hero, forcing him to duck and dive and utilise his every fancy move, sweat shining brightly on his forehead under the harsh lights. The Captain occasionally yells up a comment, and whether instruction or compliment the black man always has a ready prepared sassy answer. And that quality alone recommends Falcon greatly; there aren't many people in this world who can fight Captain America and still have enough breath left over for a running commentary. At the memory of my own confrontation with Rogers I rub my neck ruefully, the phantom pain almost causing me to wince.

The loud clang of something hard striking metal sounds, drawing my eyes to where Thor is loudly declaring the end of a 'glorious training match' to War Machine, slapping his partner heartily on the back. The armoured man stumbles forward a few steps even in his suit, but his faceplate is up and his grin is huge, his eyes sparkling as Rhodes surveys the decimated circle of training drones around them.

The room is certainly not an oasis of calm, more like a cacophony of noise, but it's a happy, productive sort of noise, and that's the best kind of noise there is.

And then Stark enters the room, flanked by a nervous looking Banner who's biting his lip even more than normal, and everything falls deadly quiet. Uh oh. This smells like trouble.

Pietro speeds to his sister's side, both of their faces flat and unwelcoming and radiating 'don't talk to us' like there's no tomorrow. Which, if this goes the wrong way, there might be. In fact, as Stark slowly but surely approaches the twins, no tomorrow is looking more and more like a distinct possibility.

The fact that Stark isn't wearing his suit is putting him in considerable danger, which Rhodes obviously realises straight away as he zooms to his long time charge's -and best friend's- side, but it also gives me hope that Stark is genuinely taking this seriously. Iron Man is cocky, self-sure and frankly very irritating. Tony Stark, on the other hand, while possessing all of those qualities, is also kind, honest and willing to admit he has made mistakes.

The twins are visibly simmering with anger by the time Stark comes to a halt in front of them and begins to speak in a low, sincere tone.

I'll tell you this now: all those people wishing to be a fly on the wall? They don't know shit. I'm literally hanging on the wall, and I can't hear a damn word. Sure, I can lipread the occasional phrase, but Stark has his back to me and is the one doing the vast majority of the talking.

But although I can't hear the conversation, I can see it's effects. The Maximoff twins begin to share contemplative looks as Stark speaks, which develop into brief flashes of reluctant understanding. Stark, on his part, begins to untense as he sees this positive reception, getting more into the flow of his apologies and plans, making expansive hand gestures as he explains.

When Wanda takes her brother's hand and says something to Stark in a low, quiet tone, huge brown eyes stunning in their intensity, I know the outcome of the conversation -whatever that outcome is- has been reached.

When Pietro spits something, blue eyes blazing, I worry it's the wrong result.

But when Stark turns back towards my vantage point, a small but genuine smile lighting up his face, I see a man with the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. And that is when I know that everything will be alright.

At least for a little while.

(*I*I*I*)

Midnight phone calls for most people are either the result of nefarious dealings, or the result of a pain-in-the-ass sales company.

S.H.I.E.L.D agents are not normal people.

"You're doing so well with them Maria, I always said you'd make a great Handler if it came down to it."

"_Temporary_ Handler," I correct my partner. "Honestly Phil, you make it sound like I didn't get the job by default."

"Default?" Phil chuckles down the line. "More like because you're the only not-recently-deceased agent that they'll even listen to. Remember me and Barton in the beginning? How I was the only one he'd listen to; how I'm _still_ one of only three, perhaps four people he'll listen to? You know that was the pure and simple reason why I got made his Handler, why I'm still his Handler. The Avengers listen to you Hill, and that's all you can ask."

"I could ask for them to be less of a gigantic pain in my ass," I grumble, knowing fully well that Phil's right, as he always is, but not quite wanting to give up on my complaining rights.

"Please, you think you have problems? Can you remember the shitstorm that went down when Barton brought _the_ Black Widow herself onto the base, or do I need to remind you? I think a minor scuffle between two man-made, HYDRA-grown mutants with lifelong grudges against the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist superhero in your charge is...actually, no, that's still pretty spectacular." Phil laughs with no sympathy in his tone, the sound mocking me through the secure line. I can imagine him now, sat with his feet on his desk, his head holding the phone on his right shoulder as his hands fiddle with his model of Lola, and a huge dirty great big grin on his face. Bastard.

"Thanks Phil. Really making me feel better."

"Aw, chin up Hill. Think of it this way. You have superheroes, real life goddamn superheroes on your side, and you're one of them." He laughs breathily, incredulousness in every syllable at the improbability of the situation, and I have to smile at it too. Superheroes? Three years ago, that would have been an impossible scenario, the one thing S.H.I.E.L.D had no plans for. But now? Now superheroes are my life, my everyday, my job. Perhaps even my friends.

"Okay, okay, you got me. It _is_ pretty cool. I'm still looking for a live-in though -I point blank refuse to take that step and I can't leave Pepper to manage a tower full of superheroes by herself forever. But until I find a bastard crazy enough to sign up for that position and all the hell it would entail, I guess I'm stuck as the Avengers' Handler."

"You have been, and will continue to be, great." Phil assures me, tone soft and fuzzy around the edges, like a comfort blanket. "Now go get some sleep. FitzSimmons are attempting to make pancakes and I can hear the screaming from here. I think they've managed to make them radioactive. Oh, and now I can here Skye screaming 'they're alive!' at the top of her lungs." He sighs. "I guess we both have our problematic teams."

"You think yours is problematic? Call me when an argument over who ate the last poptart can flatten New York." My tone softens, my smile warm. My partner is the best man on earth. "Night Phil."

"Goodnight Maria." The line shuts off with a dull click, and I recline back onto my pillows, eyes closing.

So maybe the Avengers will self-implode tomorrow and destroy the planet. Maybe one of them will get injured on a mission, or worse. Maybe they'll continue to hand in terrible paperwork.

But maybe they'll continue to work better together. Maybe their arguments will become calm and routine, full of nostalgia instead of anger. Maybe they'll become a family.

And maybe, I'll get to enjoy a small piece of it, too.

_**This was written because too many fics have the Avengers playing happy families ten seconds after Ultron is defeated, with no confrontation between the Maximoff twins and Tony. Really fandom? Really? Also Tony and weapons...gah. Come talk to me about it. Seriously, I have a lot to say on the subject, though I think I conveyed my thoughts pretty well up there.**_

_**Thank you to anyone that has read all of this gargantuan story up until now, all those that will read it in the future, and a special thanks to anyone that has ever dropped a review.**_

_**And with that, I will once more ask: Review?**_


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